
Pass '- f J'-. - 
Book . . 

By bequest of 

William Lukens Shoemaker 



TALES 



FROM 



SHAKSPEARE 



CHARLES AND MARY LAMB 



WITH THE PORTRAIT OF SHAKSPEARE 




NEW YORK 

FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 

1890 



TTTa§77 



Gift 
7 S '06 



CONTENTS. 



The Tempest I 

"A Midsummer Night's Dream ........ 15 

The Winter's Tale 31 

Much Ado about Nothing ......... 45 

As You Like It 61 

The Two Gentlemen of Verona . . 81 

The Merchant of Venice 97 

Cymbeline 114 

King Lear 131 

Macbeth 150 

All's Well that Ends Well 164 

The Taming of the Shrew . 180 

The Comedy of Errors 194 

Measure for Measure 212 

Twelfth Night; or, What you Will 231 

Timon of Athens 248 

Romeo and Juliet 265 

Hamlet, Prince of Denmark 287 

Othello 307 

Pericles, Prince of Tyre 825 



PREFACE. 



The following Tales are meant to be submitted to 
the young reader as an introduction to the study of 
Shakspeare, for which purpose his words are used 
whenever it seemed possible to bring them in; and in 
whatever has been added to give them the regular 
form of a connected story, diligent care has been taken 
to select such words as might least interrupt the effect 
of the beautiful English tongue in which he wrote: 
therefore, words introduced into our language since his 
time have been as far as possible avoided. 

In those Tales which have been taken from the 
Tragedies, the young readers will perceive, when they 
come to see the source from which these stories are 
derived, that Shakspeare's own words, with little al- 
teration, recur very frequently in the narrative as well 
as in the dialogue; but in those made from the 
Comedies the writers found themselves scarcely ever 
able to turn his words into the narrative form: there- 
fore it is feared that, in them, dialogue has been made 
use of too frequently for young people not accustomed 
to the dramatic form of writing. But this fault, if it 
be a fault, has been caused by an earnest wish to give 



VI PREFACE. 

as much of Shakspeare's own words as possible: and if 
the "ife said" and "She said" the question and the 
reply, should sometimes seem tedious to their young 
ears, they must pardon it, because it was the only way 
in which could be given to them a few hints and little 
foretastes of the great pleasure which awaits them in 
their elder years, when they come to the rich treasures 
from which these small and valueless coins are ex- 
tracted; pretending to no other merit than as faint and 
imperfect stamps of Shakspeare's matchless image. Faint 
and imperfect images they must be called, because the 
beauty of his language is too frequently destroyed by 
the necessity of changing many of his excellent words 
into words far less expressive of his true sense, to make it 
read something like prose-, and even in some few places 
where his blank verse is given unaltered, as hoping 
from its simple plainness to cheat the young readers 
into the belief that they are reading prose, yet still his 
language being transplanted from its own natural soil 
and wild poetic garden, it must want much of its native 
beauty. 

It has been wished to make these Tales easy read- 
ing for very young children. To the utmost of their 
ability the writers have constantly kept this in mind-, 
but the subjects of most of them made this a very 
difficult task. It was no easy matter to give the his- 
tories of men and women in terms familiar to the ap- 
prehension of a very young mind. For young ladies 
too it has been the intention chiefly to write; because 
boys being generally permitted the use of their father's 



PREFACE. Vn 

libraries at a much earlier age than girls are, they 
frequently have the best scenes of Shakspeare by heart, 
before their sisters are permitted to look into this 
manly book; and, therefore, instead of recommending 
these Tales to the perusal of young gentlemen who 
can read them so much better in the originals, their 
kind assistance is rather requested in explaining to 
their sisters such parts as are hardest for them to un- 
derstand: and when they have helped them to get over 
the difficulties, then perhaps they will read to them 
(carefully selecting what is proper for a young sister's 
ear) some passage which has pleased them in one of 
these stories, in the very words of the scene from 
which it is taken; and it is hoped they will find that 
the beautiful extracts, the select passages, they may 
choose to give their sisters in this way, will be much 
better relished and understood from their having some 
notion of the general story from one of these imperfect 
abridgments: — which if they be fortunately so done 
as to prove delightful to any of the young readers, it 
is hoped that no worse effect will result than to make 
them wish themselves a little older, that they may be 
allowed to read the Plays at full length (such a wish 
will be neither peevish nor irrational). When time 
and leave of judicious friends shall put them into their 
hands, they will discover in such of them as are here 
abridged (not to mention almost as many more, which 
are left untouched) many surprising events and turns 
of fortune, which for their infinite variety could not 
be contained in this little book, besides a world of 



VIII PREFACE. 

sprightly and cheerful characters, both men and women, 
the humour of which it was feared would be lost if it 
were attempted to reduce the length of them. 

What these tales shall have been to the young 
readers, that and much more it is the writers' wish 
that the true Plays of Shakspeare may prove to them 
in older years — enrichers of the fancy, strengthened 
of virtue, a withdrawing from all selfish and mercenary 
thoughts, a lesson of all sweet and honourable thoughts 
and actions, to teach courtesy, benignity, generosity, 
humanity; for of examples, teaching these virtues, his 
pages are full 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



THE TEMPEST. 

There was a certain island in the sea, the only in- 
habitants of which were an old man, whose name was 
Prospero, and his daughter Miranda, a very beautiful 
young lady. She came to this island so young, that 
she had no memory of having seen any other human 
face than her father's. 

They lived in a cave or cell, made out of a rock; 
it was divided into several apartments, one of which 
Prospero called his study; there he kept his books, 
which chiefly treated of magic, a study at that time 
much affected by all learned men: and the knowledge 
of this art he found very useful to him; for being 
thrown by a strange chance upon this island, which 
had been enchanted by a witch called Sycorax, who 
died there a short time before his arrival, Prospero, 
by virtue of his art, released many good spirits that 
Sycorax had imprisoned in the bodies of large trees, 
because they had refused to execute her wicked com- 
mands. These gentle spirits were ever after obedient 
to the will of Prospero. Of these Ariel was the 
chief. 

The lively little sprite Ariel had nothing mis- 
chievous in his nature, except that he took rather too 
Tales from Shakrpeare. * 



2 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

much pleasure in tormenting an ugly monster called 
Caliban, for lie owed him a grudge because he was 
the son of his old enemy Sycorax. ~This Caliban, 
Prospero found in the woods, a strange misshapen 
thing, far less human in form than an ape; he took 
him home to his cell, and taught him to speak; and 
Prospero would have been very kind to him, but the 
bad nature which Caliban inherited from his mother 
Sycorax, would not let him leam anything good or 
useful: therefore he was employed like a slave, to 
fetch wood, and do the most laborious offices; and 
Ariel had the charge of compelling him to these ser- 
vices. 

When Caliban was lazy and neglected his work, 
Ariel (who was invisible to all eyes but Prospero's) 
would come slily and pinch him, and sometimes tumble 
him down in the mire; and then Ariel, in the likeness 
of an ape, would make mouths at him. Then swiftly 
changing his shape, in the likeness of a hedgehog, he 
would lie tumbling in Caliban's way, who feared the 
hedgehog's sharp quills would prick his bare feet. 
With a variety of such like vexatious tricks Ariel 
would often torment him, whenever Caliban neglected 
the work which Prospero commanded him to do. 

Having these powerful spirits obedient to his will, 
Prospero could by their means command the winds, 
and the waves of the sea. By his orders they raised 
a violent storm, in the midst of which, and struggling 
with the wild sea-waves that every moment threatened 
to swallow it up, he showed his daughter a fine large 
ship, which he told her was full of living beings like 
themselves. "0 my dear.* father," said she, "if by 
your art you have raised this dreadful storm, have pity 



THE TEMPEST. 3 

on their sad distress. See! the vessel will be dashed 
to pieces. Poor souls! they will all perish. If I had 
power, I would sink the sea beneath the earth, rather 
than the good ship should be destroyed, with all the 
precious souls within her." 

"Be not so amazed, daughter Miranda ," said Pros- 
pero; "there is no harm done. I have so ordered it, 
that no person in the ship shall receive any hurt. 
What I have done has been in care of you, my dear 
child. You are ignorant who you are, or where you 
came from, and you know no more of me, but that I 
am your father, and live in this poor cave. Can you 
remember a time before you came to this cell? I think 
you cannot, for you were not then three years of 
age." 

"Certainly I can, sir," replied Miranda. 

"By what?" asked Prospero; "by any other house 
or person? Tell me what you can remember, my 
child." 

Miranda said, "It seems to me like the recollection 
of a dream. But had I not once four or five women 
who attended upon me?" 

Prospero answered, "You had, and more. How is 
it that this still lives in your mind? Do you remember 
how you came here?" 

"No, sir," said Miranda, "I remember nothing 
more." 

"Twelve years ago, Miranda," continued Prospero, 
"I was duke of Milan, and you were a princess, and 
my only heir. I had a younger brother, whose name 
was Antonio, to whom I trusted everything; and as I 
was fond of retirement and deep study, I commonly 
left the management of my state affairs to your uncle, 

1* 



4 TALES PROM SflAKSfEAtlE* 

my false brother (for so indeed lie proved). I, neg- 
lecting all worldly ends, buried among my books, did 
dedicate my whole time to the bettering of my mind. 
My brother Antonio being thus in possession of my 
power, began to think himself "the duke indeed. The 
opportunity I gave him of making himself popular 
among my subjects awakened in his bad nature a proud 
ambition to deprive me of my dukedom: this he soon 
effected with .the aid of the king of Naples, a powerful 
prince, who was my enemy." 

"Wherefore," said Miranda, "did they not that 
hour destroy us?" 

"My child," answered her father, "they durst not, 
so dear. was the love that my people bore me. Antonio 
carried us on board a ship, and when we were some 
leagues out at sea, he forced us into a small boat, 
without either tackle, sail, or mast: there he left us, 
as he thought, to perish. But a kind lord of my court, 
one Gonzalo, who loved me, had privately placed in 
the boat, water, provisions, apparel, and some books 
which I prize above my dukedom." 

"0 my father," said Miranda, "what a trouble 
must I have been to you then!" 

"No, my love," said Prospero, "you were a little 
cherub that did preserve me. Your innocent smiles 
made mo to bear up against my misfortunes. Our food 
lasted till we landed on this desert island, since when 
my chief delight has been in teaching you, Miranda, 
and well have you profited by my instructions." 

"Heaven thank you, my dear father," said Miranda. 
"Now pray tell me, sir, your reason for raising this 
sea-storm?" 



THE TEMPEST. 5 

"Know then," said her father, "that by means of 
this storm, mj enemies, the king of Naples, and my 
cruel brother are cast ashore upon this island." 

Having so said, Prospero gently touched his daughter 
with his magic wand, and she fell fast asleep; for the 
spirit Ariel just then presented himself before his master, 
to give an account of the tempest, and how he had 
disposed of the ship's company, and though the spirits 
were always invisible to Miranda, Prospero did not 
choose she should hear him holding converse (as would 
seem to her) with the empty air. 

"Well, my brave spirit," said Prospero to Ariel, 
"how have you performed your task?" 

Ariel gave a lively description of the storm, and 
of the terrors of the mariners; and how the king's son, 
Ferdinand, was the first who leaped into the sea; and 
his father thought* he saw his dear son swallowed up 
by the waves and lost. "But he is safe," said Ariel, 
"in a corner of the isle, sitting with his arms folded, 
sadly lamenting the loss of the king his father, whom 
he concludes drowned. Not a hair of his head is in- 
jured, and his princely garments, though drenched in 
the sea-waves, look fresher than before." 

"That's my delicate Ariel," said Prospero. "Bring 
him hither: my daughter must see this young prince. 
Where is the king, and my brother?" 

"I left them," answered Ariel, "searching for Fer- 
dinand, whom they have little hopes of finding, think- 
ing they saw him perish. Of the ship's crew not one 
is missing; though each one thinks himself the only 
one saved: and the ship, though invisible to them, is 
safe in the harbour." 



6 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

"Ariel," said Prospero, "thy charge is faithfully 
performed: but there is more work yet." 

"Is there more work?" said Ariel. "Let me remind 
you, master, you have promised me my liberty. I 
pray, remember, I have done you worthy service, told 
you no lies, made no mistakes, served you without 
grudge or grumbling." 

"How now!" said Prospero. "You do not recollect 
what a torment I freed you from. Have you forgot 
the wicked witch Sycorax, who with age and envy was 
almost bent double? Where was she born? Speak; 
tell me." 

"Sir, in Algiers," said Ariel. 

"0 was she so?" said Prospero. "I must recount 
what you have been, which I find you do not remem- 
ber. This bad witch, Sycorax, for her witchcrafts, 
too terrible to enter human hearing, was banished from 
Algiers, and here left by the sailors; and because you 
were a spirit too delicate to execute her wicked com- 
mands, she shut you up in a tree, where I found you 
howling. This torment, remember, I did free you 
from." 

"Pardon me, dear master," said Ariel, ashamed to 
seem ungrateful; "I will obey your commands." 

"Do so," said Prospero, "and I will set you free." 
He then gave orders what further he would have him 
do; and away went Ariel, first to where he had left 
Ferdinand, and found him still sitting on the grass in 
the same melancholy posture. 

"O my young gentleman," said Ariel, when he saw 
him, "I will soon move you. You must be brought, I 
find, for the Lady Miranda to have a sight of your 



TIIE TEMPEST. < 

pretty person. Come, sir, follow me." He then began 
singing, 

"Full fathom five thy father lies : 

Of his bone3 are coral made; 
Those are pcarl3 that were his eyes: 

Nothing of him that doth fade , 
But doth suffer a sea-change 
Into something rich and strange. 
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell : 
Hark, now I hear them, ding-dong-bell." 

This strange news of his lost father soon roused 
the prince from the stupid fit into which he had fallen. 
He followed in amazement the sound of Ariel's voice, 
till it led him to Prospero and Miranda, who were 
sitting under the shade of a large tree. Now Miranda 
had never seen a man before, except her own father. 

"Miranda," said Prospero, "tell me what you are 
looking at yonder." 

"0 father," said Miranda, in a strange surprise, 
"surely that is a spirit. Lord! how it looks about! 
Believe me, sir, it is a beautiful creature. Is it not a 
spirit?" 

"No, girl," answered her father; "it eats, and sleeps, 
and has senses such as we have. This young man you 
see was in the ship. He is somewhat altered by grief, 
or you might call him a handsome person. He has 
lost his companions, and is wandering about to find 
them." 

Miranda, who thought all men had grave faces and 
gray beards like her father, was delighted with the 
appearance of this beautiful young prince; and Fer- 
dinand, seeing such a lovely lady in this desert place, 
and from the strange sounds he had heard, expecting 
nothing but wonders, thought he was upon an enchanted 



8 TALES FROM SHAKSrEARE. 

island, and that Miranda was the goddess of the place, 
and as such he began to address her. 

She timidly answered, she was no goddess, but a 
simple maid, and was going to give him an account 
of herself, when Prospero interrupted her. He was well 
pleased to find they admired each other, for he plainly 
perceived they had (as we say) fallen in love at first 
sight: but to try Ferdinand's constancy, he resolved to 
throw some difficulties in their way: therefore advancing 
forward, he addressed the prince with a stern air, telling 
him, he came to the island as a spy, to take it from 
him who was the lord of it. Follow me," said he, "I 
will tie you neck and feet together. You shall drink 
sea- water; shell-fish, withered roots, and husks of acorns 
shall be your food." "No," said Ferdinand, "I will 
resist such entertainment, till I see a more powerful 
enemy," and drew his sword; but Prospero, waving his 
magic wand, fixed him to the spot where he stood, so 
that he had no power to move. 

Miranda hung upon her father, saying, "Why are 
you so ungentle? Have pity, sir; I will be his surety. 
This is the second man I ever saw, and to me he seems 
a true one." 

"Silence," said the father; "one word more will 
make me chide you, girl! What! an advocate for an 
impostor! You think there are no more such fine men, 
having seen only him and Caliban. I tell you, foolish 
girl, most men as far excel this, as he does Caliban." 
This he said to prove his daughter's constancy; and 
she replied, "My affections are most humble. I have 
no wish to see a goodlier man." 

"Come on, young man," said Prospero to the prince, 
"you have no power to disobey me." 



THE TEMPEST. if 

"I liavo not indeed," answered Ferdinand; and not 
knowing that it was by magic he was deprived of all 
power of resistance, he was astonished to find himself 
so strangely compelled to follow Prospero : looking back 
on Miranda as long as he could see her, he said, as he 
went after Prospero into the cave, "My spirits are all 
bound up, as if I were in a dream; but this man's 
threats, and the weakness which I feel, would seem 
light to me if from my prison I might once a day be- 
hold this fair maid." 

Prospero kept Ferdinand not long confined within 
the cell: he soon brought out his prisoner, and set him a 
severe task to perform, taking care to let his daughter 
know the hard labour he had imposed on him, and then 
pretending to go into his study, he secretly watched 
them both. 

Prospero had commanded Ferdinand to pile up 
some heavy logs of wood. Kings' sons not being much 
used to laborious work, Miranda soon after found her 
lover almost dying with fatigue. "Alas!" said she, 
"do not work so hard; my father is at his studies, he 
is safe for these three hours: pray rest yourself." 

"0 my dear lady," said Ferdinand, "I dare not. I 
must finish my task before I take my rest." 

"If you will sit down," said Miranda, "I will carry 
your logs the while." But this Ferdinand would by no 
means agree to. Instead of a help Miranda became a 
hinderance, for they began a long conversation, so that 
the business of log-carrying went on very slowly. 

Prospero, who had enjoined Ferdinand this task 
merely as a trial of his love, was not as his books, as 
his daughter supposed, but was standing by them in- 
visible, to overhear what they said. 



10 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Ferdinand inquired her name , which she told, 
saying it was against her father's express command she 
did so. 

Prospero only smiled at this first instance of his 
daughter's disobedience, for having by his magic art 
caused his daughter to fall in love so suddenly, he was 
not angry that she showed her love by forgetting to 
obey his commands. And he listened well pleased to 
a long speech of Ferdinand's, in which he professed to 
love her above all the ladies he ever saw. 

In answer to his praises of her beauty, which he 
said exceeded all the women in the world, she replied, 
"I do not remember the face of any woman, nor have 
I seen any more men than you, my good friend, and 
my dear father. How features are abroad, I know not; 
but, believe me, sir, I would not wish any companion 
in the world but you, nor can my imagination form 
any shape but yours that I could like. But, sir, I fear 
I talk to you too freely, and my father's precepts I 
forget." 

At this Prospero smiled, and nodded his head, as 
much as to say, "This goes on exactly as I could wish; 
my girl will be queen of Naples." 

And then Ferdinand, in another fine long speech, 
(for young princes speak in courtly phrases), told the 
innocent Miranda he was heir to the crown of Naples, 
and that she should be his queen. 

"Ah! sir," said she, "I am a fool to weep at what 
I am glad of. I will answer you in plain and holy in- 
nocence. I am your wife, if you will marry me." 

Prospero prevented Ferdinand's thanks by appearing 
visible before them. 



THE TEMPEST. 11 

"Fear nothing, my child," said he; "I have over- 
heard, and approve of all you have said. And, Fer- 
dinand, if I have loo severely used you, I will make 
you rich amends, by giving you my daughter. All 
your vexations were but trials of your love, and you 
have nobly stood the test. Then as my gift, which your 
true love has worthily purchased, take my daughter, 
and do not smile that I boast she is above all praise." 
He then, telling them that he had business which re- 
quired his presence, desired they would sit down and 
talk together till he returned; and this command Mi- 
randa seemed not at all disposed to disobey. 

When Prospero left them, he called his spirit Ariel, 
who quickly appeared before him, eager to relate what 
he had done with Prospero's brother and the king of 
Naples. Ariel said he had left them almost out of their 
senses with fear, at the strange things he had caused 
them to see andliear. When fatigued with wandering 
about, and famished for want of food, he had suddenly 
set before them a delicious banquet, and then, just as 
they were going to eat, he appeared visible before them 
in the shape of a harpy, a voracious monster with wings, 
and the feast vanished away. Then, to their utter amaze- 
ment, this seeming harpy spoke to them, reminding 
them of their cruelty in driving Prospero from his duke- 
dom, and leaving him and his infant daughter to perish 
in the sea; saying, that for this cause these terrors 
were suffered to afflict them. 

The king of Naples, and Antonio the false brother, 
repented the injustice they had done to Prospero; and 
Ariel told his master he was certain their penitence 
was sincere, and that he, though a spirit, could not but 
pity them. 



12 TALES FJJOM SflAKSFEARE. 

"Then bring them hither, Ariel," said Prospero: 
"if you, who are but a spirit, feel for their distress, 
shall not I, who am a human being like themselves, 
have compassion on them? Bring them quickly, my 
dainty Ariel." 

Ariel soon returned Avith the king, Antonio, and 
old Gonzalo in their train, who had followed him, 
wondering at the wild music he played in the air to 
draw them on to his master's presence. This Gonzalo 
was the same who had so kindly provided Prospero 
formerly with books and provisions, when his wicked 
brother left him, as he thought, to perish in an open 
boat in the sea. 

Grief and terror had so stupified their senses, that 
they did not know Prospero. He first discovered him- 
self to the good old Gonzalo, calling him the preserver 
of his life; and then his brother and the king knew 
that he was the injured Prospero. 

Antonio with tears, and sad words of sorrow and 
true repentance, implored his brother's forgiveness; and 
the king expressed his sincere remorse for having as- 
sisted Antonio to depose his brother: and Prospero for- 
gave them; and, upon their engaging to restore his 
dukedom, he said to the king of Naples, "I have a 
gift in store for you too;" and opening a door, showed 
him his son Ferdinand playing at chess with Miranda. 

Nothing could exceed the joy of the father and the 
son at this unexpected meeting, for they each thought 
the other drowned in the storm. 

"0 wonder 1" said Miranda, "what noble creatures 
these are! It must surely be a brave world that has 
such people in it." 

The king of Naples was almost as much astonished 



TIIE TEMPEST. 13 

at the beauty and excellent graces of the young Miranda, 
as his son had been. "Who is this maid?" said he; 
"she seems the goddess that has parted us, and brought 
us thus together." "No, sir," answered Ferdinand, 
smiling to find his father had fallen into the same mis- 
take that he had done when he first saw Miranda, "she 
is a mortal, but by immortal Providence she is mine; 
I chose her when I could not ask you, my father, for 
youT consent, not thinking you were alive. She is the 
daughter to this Prospero, who is the famous duke of 
Milan, of whose renown I have heard so much, but 
never saw him till now: of him I have received a new 
life: he has made himself to me a second father, giving 
me this dear lady." 

"Then I must be her father," said the king: "but 
oh! how oddly will it sound, that I must ask my child 
forgiveness." 

"No more ofnhat," said Prospero: "let us not re- 
member our troubles past, since they so happily have 
ended." And then Prospero embraced his brother, and 
again assured him of his forgiveness; and said that a 
wise, overruling Providence had permitted that ho 
should be driven from his poor dukedom of Milan, that 
his daughter might inherit the crown of Naples, for 
that by their meeting in this desert island, it had hap- 
pened that the king's son had loved Miranda. 

These kind words which Prospero spoke, meaning 
to comfort his brother, so filled Antonio with shame 
and remorse, that he wept and was unable to speak; 
and the kind old Gonzalo wept to see this joyful re- 
conciliation, and prayed for blessings on the young 
couple. 



14 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Prospero now told them that their ship was safe in 
the harbour, and the sailors all on board her, and that 
he and his daughter would accompany them home the 
next morning, "In the mean time," says he, "partake 
of such refreshments as my poor cave affords; and for 
your evening's entertainment I will relate the history 
of my life from my first landing in this desert island." 
He then called for Caliban to prepare some food, and 
set the cave in order; and the company were astonished 
at the uncouth form and savage appearance of this ugly 
monster, who (Prospero said) was the only attendant 
he had to wait upon him. 

Before Prospero left the island, he dismissed Ariel 
from his service, to the great joy of that lively little 
spirit; who, though he had been a faithful servant to 
his master, was always longing to enjoy his free liberty, 
to wander uncontrolled in the air, like a wild bird, 
under green trees, among pleasant fruits, and sweet- 
smelling flowers. "My quaint Ariel," said Prospero to 
the little sprite when he made him free, "I shall miss 
you; yet you shall have your freedom." "Thank you, 
my dear master," said Ariel; "but give me leave to 
attend your ship home with prosperous gales, before 
you bid farewell to the assistance of your faithful spirit; 
and then, master, when I am free, how merrily I shall 
live I" Here Ariel sung this pretty song: 

" Where the bee sucks , there suck I ; 
In a cowslip's bell I lie: 
There I couch when owls do cry, 
On the bat's back I do fly 
After summer merrily. 
Merrily, merrily shall I live now 
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough." 



THE TEMPEST. 15 

Prospero then buried deep in the earth his magical 
books and wand, for he was resolved never more to 
make use of the magic art. And having thus overcome 
his enemies, and being reconciled to his brother and 
the king of Naples, nothing now remained to complete 
his happiness, but to revisit his native land, to take 
possession of his dukedom, and to witness the happy 
nuptials of his daughter and Prince Ferdinand, which 
tbe king said should be instantly celebrated with great 
splendour on their return to Naples. At which place, 
under the safe convoy of the spirit Ariel, they, after 
a pleasant voyage, soon arrived. 



36 TALES PROM SHAKSPEARE. 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 



Tiiere was a law in the city of Athens which gave 
to its citizens the power of compelling their daughters 
to marry whomsoever they pleased ; for upon a daughter's 
refusing to marry the man her father had chosen to be 
her husband, the father was empowered by this law to 
cause her to be put to death; but as fathers do not 
often desire the death of their own daughters, even 
though they do happen to prove a little refractory, this 
law was seldom or never put in execution, though per- 
haps the young ladies of that city were not unfre- 
quently threatened by their parents with the terrors 
of it. 

There was one instance, however, of an old man, 
whose name was Egeus, who actually did come before 
Theseus (at that time the reigning Duke of Athens), 
to complain that his daughter Hermia, whom he had 
commanded to marry Demetrius, a young man of a 
noble Athenian family, refused to obey him, because 
she loved another young Athenian, named Lysander. 
Egeus demanded justice of Theseus, and desired that 
this cruel law might be put in force against his 
daughter. 

Hermia pleaded in excuse for her disobedience, that 
Demetrius had formerly professed love for her dear 
friend Helena, and that Helena loved Demetrius to 



A MirSUMMER NIGHTS DREAM. 17 

distraction; but this honourable reason, which Hermia 
gave for not obeying her father's command, moved not 
the stern Egeus. 

Theseus, though a great and merciful prince, had 
no power to alter the laws of his country; therefore he 
could only give Hermia four days to consider of it: 
and at the end of that time, if she still refused to marry 
Demetrius, she was to be put to death. 

When Hermia was dismissed from the presence of 
the duke, she went to her lover Lysander, and told 
him the peril she was in, and that she must either 
give him up and marry Demetrius, or lose her life in 
four days. 

Lysander was in great affliction at hearing these 
evil tidings; but recollecting that he had an aunt who 
lived at some distance from Athens, and that at the 
place where she lived the cruel law could not be put 
in force against Hermia (this law not extending beyond 
the boundaries of the city), he proposed to Hermia, 
that she should steal out of her father's house that 
night, and go with him to his aunt's house, where he 
would marry her. "I will meet you," said Lysander, 
"in the wood a few miles without the city; in that de- 
lightful wood, where we have so often walked with 
Helena in the pleasant month of May." 

To this proposal Hermia joyfully agreed; and she 
told no one of her intended flight but her friend Helena. 
Helena (as maidens will do foolish things for love) 
very ungenerously resolved to go and tell this to Deme- 
trius, though she could hope no benefit from betraying 
her friend's secret, but the poor pleasure of following 
her faithless lover to the wood ; for she well knew that 
Demetrius would go thither in pursuit of Hermia. 
Tales from Sliakspeare, 2 



18 TALES FROM SHAKSrEARE. 

The wood, in which Lysander and Hermia proposed 
to meet, was the favourite haunt of those little beings 
known by the name of Fairies. 

Oberon the king, and Titania the queen of the 
Fairies, and all their tiny train of followers, in this 
wood held their midnight revels. 

Between this little king and queen of sprites there 
happened, at this time, a sad disagreement; they never 
met by moonlight in the shady walks of this pleasant 
wood, but they were quarrelling, till all their fairy 
elves would creep into acorn-cups and hide themselves 
for fear. 

The cause of this unhappy disagreement was Ti- 
tania's refusing to give Oberon a little changeling boy, 
whose mother had been Titania's friend; and upon her 
death the fairy queen stole the child from its nurse, 
and brought him up in the woods. 

The night on which the lovers were to meet in this 
wood, as Titania was walking with some of her maids 
of honour, she met Oberon attended by his train of 
faiiy courtiers. 

"Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania," said the 
fairy king. The queen replied, "What, jealous Oberon, 
is it you? Fairies, skip hence; I have forsworn his 
company." "Tarry, rash fairy," said Oberon; "am 
not I thy lord? Why does Titania cross her Oberon? 
Give me your little changeling boy to be my page." 

"Set your heart at rest," answered the queen,; 
"your whole fairy kingdom buys not the boy of me." 
She then left her lord in great anger. "Well, go your 
way," said Oberon: "before the morning dawns I will 
torment you for this injury." 



A MIDSUMMER SIGHTS DKEAM. 19 

Oberon then sent for Puck, his chief favourite and 
privy counsellor. 

Puck (or as he was sometimes called, Kobin Good- 
fellow) was a shrewd and knavish sprite, that used to 
play comical pranks in the neighbouring villages; some- 
times getting into the dairies and skimming the milk, 
sometimes plunging his light and airy form into the 
butter-churn, and while he was dancing his fantastic 
shape in the churn, in vain the dairy-maid would labour 
to change her cream into butter: nor had the village 
swains any better success; whenever Puck chose to 
play his freaks in the brewing copper, the ale was sure 
to be spoiled. When a few good neighbours were met 
to drink some comfortable ale together, Puck would 
jump into the bowl of ale in the likeness of a roasted 
crab, and when some old goody was going to drink, 
he would bob against her lips, and spill the ale over 
her withered chin; and presently after, when the same 
old dame was gravely seating herself to tell her neigh- 
bours a sad and melancholy story, Puck would slip her 
three-legged stool from under her, and down toppled 
the poor old woman, and then the old gossips would 
hold their sides and laugh at her, and swear they never 
wasted a merrier hour. 

"Come hither, Puck," said Oberon to this little 
merry wanderer of the night; "fetch me the flower 
which maids call Love in Idleness; the juice of that 
little purple flower laid on the eyelids of those who 
sleep, will make them, when they awake, dote on the 
first thing they see. Some of the juice of that flower 
I will drop on the eyelids of my Titania when she is 
asleep; and the first thing she looks upon when she 
opens her eyes she will fall in love with, even though 

2* 



20 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

it be a lion or a bear, a meddling monkey, or a busy 
ape; and before I will take this charm from off her 
sight, which I can do with another charm I know of, 
I will make her give me that boy to be my page." 

Puck, who loved mischief to his heart, was highly 
diverted with this intended frolic of his master, and 
ran to seek the flower; and while Oberon was waiting 
the return of Puck, he observed Demetrius and Helena 
enter the wood: he overheard Demetrius reproaching 
Helena for following him, and after many unkind words 
on his part, and gentle expostulations from Helena, 
reminding him of his former love and professions of 
true faith to her, he left her (as he said) to the mercy 
of the wild beasts, and she ran after him as swiftly as 
she could. 

The faiiy king, who was always friendly to true 
lovers, felt great compassion for Helena; and perhaps, 
as Lysander said they used to walk by moonlight in 
this pleasant wood, Oberon might have seen Helena in 
those happy times when she was beloved by Demetrius. 
However that might be, when Puck returned with the 
little purple flower, Oberon said to his favourite, "Take 
a part of this flower: there has been a sweet Athenian 
lady here, who is in love with a disdainful youth; if 
you find him sleeping, drop some of the love-juice in 
his eyes, but contrive to do it when she is near him, 
that the first thing he sees when he awakes may be 
this despised lady. You will know the man by the 
Athenian garments which he wears." Puck promised to 
manage this matter very dexterously; and then Oberon 
went, unperceived byTitania, to her bower, where she 
was preparing to go to rest. Her fairy bower was a 
bank, where grew wild thyme, cowslips, and sweefc 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 21 

violets, under a canopy of woodbine, musk-roses, and 
eglantine. There Titania always slept some part of the 
night; her coverlet the enamelled skin of a snake, 
which, though a smaH mantle, was wide enough to 
wrap a fairy in. 

He found Titania giving orders to her fairies, how 
they were to employ themselves while she slept. "Some 
of you," said her majesty, "must kill cankers in the 
musk-rose buds, and some wage war with the bats for 
their leathern wings, to make my small elves coats; 
and some of you keep watch that the clamorous owl, 
that nightly hoots, come not near me: but first sing 
me to sleep." Then they began to sing this song: — 

You spotted snakes with double tongue, 

Thorny hedgehogs , be not seen; 

Newts and blind-worms do no wrong , 

Come not near our Fairy Queen. 

Philomel , with melody, 

Sing in your sweet lullaby, 

Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby; 

Never harm, nor spell, nor charm, 

Come our lovely lady nigh ; 

So good night with lullaby. 

When the fairies had sung their queen asleep with 
this pretty lullaby, they left her to perform the im- 
portant services she had enjoined them. Oberon then 
softly drew near his Titania, and dropped some of the 
love-juice on her eyelids, saying, — 

What thou seest when thou dost wake, 
Do it for thy true-love take. 

But to return to Hermia, who made her escape out 
of her father's house that night, to avoid the death she 
was doomed to for refusing to marry Demetrius. When 
she entered the wood, she found her dear Lysander 
waiting for her, to conduct her to his aunt's house; but 



22 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

before they had passed half through the wood, Hermia 
was so much fatigued, that Lysander, who was very 
careful of this dear lady, who had proved her affection 
for him even by hazarding her life for his sake, per- 
suaded her to rest till morning on a bank of soft moss, 
and lying down himself on the ground at some little 
distance, they soon fell fast asleep. Here they were 
found by Puck, who, seeing a handsome young man 
asleep, and perceiving that his clothes were made in 
the Athenian fashion, and that a pretty lady was sleep- 
ing near him, concluded that this must be the Athenian 
maid and her disdainful lover whom Oberon had sent 
him to seek; and he naturally enough conjectured that, 
as they were alone together, she must be the first thing 
he would see when he awoke; so, without more ado, 
he proceeded to pour some of the juice of the little 
purple flower into his eyes. But it so fell out, that 
Helena came that way, and, instead of Hermia, was 
the first object Lysander beheld when he opened his 
eyes; and strange to relate, so powerful was the love- 
charm, all his love for Hermia vanished away, and 
Lysander fell in love with Helena. 

Had he first seen Hermia when he awoke, the 
blunder Puck committed would have been of no con- 
sequence, for he could not love that faithful lady too 
well; but for poor Lysander to be forced by a fairy 
love-charm to forget his own true Hermia, and to run 
after another lady, and leave Hermia asleep quite 
alone in a wood at midnight, was a sad chance 
indeed. 

Thus this misfortune happened. Helena, as has 
been before related, endeavoured to keep pace with 
Demetrius when he ran away so rudely from her; but 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHTS DREAM. 23 

she could not continue this unequal race long, men 
being always better runners in a long race than ladies. 
Helena soon lost sight of Demetrius; and as she was 
wandering about, dejected and forlorn, she "arrived at 
the place where Lysander was sleeping. "Ah!" said 
she, "this is Lysander lying on the ground: is he dead 
or asleep?" Then, gently touching him, she said, "Good 
sir, if you are alive, awake." Upon this Lysander 
opened his eyes, and (the love-charm beginning to work) 
immediately addressed her in terms of extravagant love 
and admiration; telling her she as much excelled Hermia 
in beauty as a dove does a raven, and that he would 
run through fire for her sweet sake; and many more 
such lover-like speeches. Helena knowing Lysander was 
her friend Hermia' s lover, and that he was solemnly 
engaged to marry her, was in the utmost rage when 
she heard herself addressed in this manner; for she 
thought (as well'she might) that Lysander was making 
a jest of her. "Oh!" said she, "why was I born to be 
mocked and scorned by every one? Is it not enough, 
is it not enough, young man, that I can never get a 
sweet look or a kind word from Demetrius; but you, 
sir, must pretend in this disdainful manner to court me? 
I thought, Lysander, you were a lord of more true 
gentleness." Saying these words in great anger, she 
ran away; and Lysander followed her, quite forgetful 
of his own Hermia, who was still asleep. 

When Hermia awoke, she was in a sad fright at 
finding herself alone. She wandered about the wood, 
not knowing what was become of Lysander, or which 
way to go to seek for him. In the mean time Deme- 
trius not being able to find Hermia and his rival Ly- 
sander, and fatigued with his fruitless search, was ob- 



24 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

served by Oberon fast asleep. Oberon bad learnt by 
some questions be bad asked of Puck, tbat be bad ap- 
plied tbe love-cbarni to tbe wrong person's eyes; and 
now baving found tbe person first intended, be toucbed 
tbe eyelids of tbe sleeping Demetrius witb tbe love- 
juice, and be instantly awoke; and tbe first tbing be 
saw being Helena, be, as Lysander bad done before, 
began to address love-speecbes to ber; and just at tbat 
moment Lysander followed by Hermia (for tbrougb 
Puck's unlucky mistake it was now become Hermia' s 
turn to run after ber lover) made bis appearance; and 
tben Lysander and Demetrius, botb speaking togetber, 
made love to Helena, tbey being eacb one under tbe 
influence of tbe same potent cbarm. 

Tbe astonisbed Helena tbougbt tbat Demetrius, 
Lysander, and ber once dear friend Hermia, were all 
in a plot togetber to make a jest of ber. 

Hermia was as mucb surprised as Helena; sbe knew 
not wby Lysander and Demetrius, wbo botb before 
loved ber, were now become tbe lovers of Helena; and 
to Hermia tbe matter seemed to be no jest. 

Tbe ladies, wbo before bad always been tbe dearest 
of friends, now fell to bigb words togetber. 

"Unkind Hermia," said Helena, "it is you bave 
set Lysander on to vex me witb mock praises; and 
your otber lover Demetrius, wbo used almost to spurn 
me witb bis foot, bave you not bid bim call me goddess, 
nympb, rare, precious, and celestial? He would not 
speak tbus to me, wbom be bates, if you did not set 
bim on to make a jest of me. Unkind Hermia, to join 
witb men in scorning your poor friend. Have you 
forgot our scbool-day friendsbip? How often, Hermia, 
bave we two, sitting on one cusbion, botb singing one 



A ilLDSUMMEU NIGHT'S DllEAM. 25 

song, with our needles working the same flower, both 
on the same sampler wrought; growing up together in 
fashion of a double cherry, scarcely seeming parted? 
Hermia, it is not friendly in you, it is not maidenly 
to join with men in scorning your poor friend." 

"I am amazed at your passionate words," said 
Hermia: "I scorn you not; it seems you scorn me." 
"Ay, do," returned Helena, "persevere, counterfeit 
serious looks, and make mouths at me when I turn my 
back; then wink at each other, and hold the sweet jest 
up. If you had any pity, grace , or manners, you would 
not use me thus." 

While Helene and Hermia were speaking these 
angry words to each other, Demetrius and Lysander 
left them, to fight together in the wood for the love of 
Helena. 

When they found the gentlemen had left them, they 
departed, and once more wandered weary in the wood 
in search of their lovers. 

As soon as they were gone, the fairy king, who 
with little Puck had been listening to their quarrels, 
said to him, "This is your negligence, Puck; or did 
you do this wilfully?" "Believe me, king of shadows," 
answered Puck, "it was a mistake; did not you tell 
me I should know the man by his Athenian garments? 
However, I am not sorry this has happened, for I think 
their jangling makes excellent sport." "You heard," 
said Oberon, "that Demetrius and Lysander are gone 
to seek a convenient place to fight in. I command you 
to overhang the night with a thick fog, and lead these 
quarrelsome lovers so astray in the dark, that they 
shall not be able to find each other. Counterfeit each 
of their voices to the other, and with bitter taunts pro- 



26 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

voke them to follow you, while they think it is their 
rival's tongue they hear. See you do this, till they 
are so weary they can go no further; and when you 
find they are asleep , drop the juice of this other flower 
into Lysander's eyes, and when he awakes he will 
forget his new love for Helena, and return to his old 
passion for Hermia; and then the two fair ladies may 
each one be happy with the man she loves, and they 
will think all that has passed a vexatious dream. About 
this quickly, Puck, and I will go and see what sweet 
love my Titania has found." 

Titania was still sleeping, and Oberon seeing a 
clown near her, who had lost his way in the wood, and 
was likewise asleep: "This fellow," said he, "shall be 
my Titania' s true love;" and clapping an ass's head 
over the clown's, it seemed to fit him as well as if it 
had grown upon his own shoulders. Though Oberon 
fixed the ass's head on very gently, it awakened him, 
and rising up, unconscious of what Oberon had done 
to him, he went towards the bower where the fairy 
queen slept. 

"Ah! what angel is that I see?" said Titania, 
opening her eyes, and the juice of the little purple 
flower beginning to take effect: "are you as wise as 
you are beautiful?" 

"Why, mistress," said the foolish clown, "if I have 
wit enough to find the way out of this wood, I have 
enough to serve my turn." 

"Out of the wood do not desire to go," said the 
enamoured queen. "I am a spirit of no common rate. 
I love you. Go with me, and I will give you fairies 
to attend upon you." 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 27 

She then called four of her fairies: their names 
were, Pease -blossom, Cobweb, Moth, and Mustard- 



" Attend," said the queen, "upon this sweet gentle- 
man; hop in his walks, and gambol in his sight; feed 
him with grapes and apricots, and steal for him the 
honey-bags from the bees. Come, sit with me," said 
she to the clown, "and let me play with your amiable 
hairy cheeks, my beautiful ass! and kiss your fair large 
ears, my gentle joy!" 

"Where is Pease-blossom?" said the ass -headed 
clown, not much regarding the fairy queen's courtship, 
but very proud of his new attendants. 

"Here, sir," said little Pease-blossom. 

"Scratch my head," said the clown. "Where is 
Cobweb?" 

"Here, sir," said Cobweb. 

"Good Mr. Cobweb," said the foolish clown, "kill 
me the red humble bee on the top of that thistle yonder; 
and, good Mr. Cobweb, bring me the honey-bag. Do 
not fret yourself too much in the action, Mr. Cobweb, 
and take care the honey-bag break not; I should be 
sorry to have you overflown with a honey-bag. Where 
is Mustard-seed?" 

"Here, sir," said Mustard-seed: "what is your 
will?" 

"Nothing," said the clown, "good Mr. Mustard- 
seed, but to help Mr. Pease-blossom to scratch; I must 
go to a barber's, Mr. Mustard-seed, for methinks I am 
marvellous hairy about the face." 

"My sweet love," said the queen, "what will you 
have to eat? I have a venturous fairy shall seek the 
Bquirrel's hoard, and fetch you some new nuts." 



28 TALEcJ FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

"I bad ratlicr Lave a handful of dried pease," said 
the clown, who with his ass's head had got an ass's 
appetite. "But, I pray, let none of your people disturb 
me, for I have a mind to sleep." 

"Sleep, then," said the queen, "and I will wind 
you in my arms. how I love you! how I dote upon 
you!" 

When the fairy king saw the clown sleeping in the 
arms of his queen, he advanced within her sight, and 
reproached her with having lavished her favours upon 
an ass. 

This she could not deny, as the clown was then 
sleeping within her arms, with his ass's head crowned 
by her with flowers. 

When Oberon had teased her for some time, he again 
demanded the changeling- boy, which she, ashamed of 
being discovered by her lord with her new favourite, 
did not dare to refuse him. 

Oberon, having thus obtained the little boy he had 
so long wished for to be his page, took pity on the 
disgraceful situation into which, by his merry con- 
trivance, he had brought his Titania, and threw some 
of the juice of the other flower into her eyes; and the 
fairy queen immediately recovered her senses, and 
wondered at her late dotage, saying how she now 
loathed the sight of the strange monster. 

Oberon likewise took the ass's head from off the 
clown, and left him to finish his nap with his own fool's 
head upon his shoulders. 

Oberon and his Titania being now perfectly recon- 
ciled, he related to her the history of the lovers, and 
their midnight quarrels-, and she agreed to go with 
him, and see the end of their adventures. 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT/ 1 S DREAM. 2 ( J 

The fairy king and queen found the lovers and 
their fair ladies, at no great distance from each other, 
sleeping on a grass-plot; for Puck, to make amends 
for his former mistake, had contrived with the utmost 
diligence to bring them all to the same spot, unknown 
to each other; and he had carefully removed the charm 
from off the eyes of Lysander with the antidote the 
fairy king gave to him. 

Hermia first awoke, and rinding her lost Lysander 
asleep so near her, was looking at him and wondering 
at his strange inconstancy. Lysander presently opening 
his eyes, and seeing his dear Hermia, recovered his 
reason which the fairy charm had before clouded, and 
with his reason, his love for Hermia; and they began 
to talk over the adventures of the night, doubting if 
these things had really happened, or if they had both 
been dreaming the same Dowildering dream. 

Helena and Demetrius were by this time awake; 
and a sweet sleep having quieted Helena's disturbed 
and angry spirits, she listened with delight to the pro- 
fessions of love which Demetrius still made to her, and 
which, to her surprise as well as pleasure, she began 
to perceive were sincere. 

These fair night- wandering ladies, now no longer 
rivals, became once more true friends; all the unkind 
words which had passed were forgiven, and they calmly 
consulted together what was best to be done in their 
present situation. It was soon agreed that, as Deme- 
trius had given up his pretensions to Hermia, he should 
endeavour to prevail upon her father to revoke the 
cruel sentence of death which had been passed against 
her. Demetrius was preparing to return to Athens for 
this friendly purpose, when they were surprised with 



30 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

the sight of Egeus, Hermia's father , who came to the 
wood in pursuit of his runaway daughter. 

When Egeus understood that Demetrius would not 
now many his daughter, he no longer opposed her 
marriage with Lysander, but gave his consent that they 
should he wedded on the fourth day from that time, 
being the same day on which Hermia had been con- 
demned to lose her life; and on that same day Helena 
joyfully agreed to marry her beloved and now faithful 
Demetrius. 

The fairy king and queen, who were invisible 
spectators of this reconciliation, and now saw the happy 
ending of the lovers' history brought about through the 
good offices of Oberon, received so much pleasure, that 
these kind spirits resolved to celebrate the approaching 
nuptials with sports and revels throughout their fairy 
kingdom. 

And now, if any are offended with this story of 
fairies and their pranks, as judging it incredible and 
strange, they have only to think that they have been 
asleep and dreaming, and that all these adventures 
Were visions which they saw in their sleep : and I hope 
none of my readers will be so unreasonable as to be 
offended with a pretty harmless Midsummer Night's 
Dream. 



THE WINTERS TALE. 31 



THE WINTER'S TALE. 



Leontes, king of Sicily, and his queen, the beauti- 
ful and virtuous Hermione, once lived in the greatest 
harmony together. So happy was Leontes in the love 
of this excellent lady, that he had no wish ungratified, 
except that he sometimes desired to see again, and to 
present to his queen, his old companion and school- 
fellow, Polixenes, king of Bohemia. Leontes and Po- 
lixenes were brought up together from their infancy, 
but being, by the death of their fathers, called to reign 
over their respective kingdoms, they had not met for 
many years, though they frequently interchanged gifts, 
letters, and loving embassies. 

At length, after repeated invitations, Polixenes 
came from Bohemia to the Sicilian court, to make his 
friend Leontes a visit. 

At first this visit gave nothing but pleasure to 
Leontes. He recommended the friend of his youth to 
the queen's particular attention, and seemed in the pre- 
sence of his dear friend and old companion to have his 
felicity quite completed. They talked over old times; 
their school-days and their youthful pranks were re- 
membered, and recounted to Hermione, who always 
took a cheerful part in these conversations. 

"When, after a long stay, Polixenes was preparing 
to depart, Hermione, at the desire of her husband, 



32 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

joined her entreaties to his that Polixenes would pro- 
long his visit. 

And now began this good queen's sorrow; for Po- 
lixenes refusing to stay at the request of Leontes, was 
won over by Hermione's gentle and persuasive words 
to put off his departure for some weeks longer. Upon 
this, although Leontes had so long known the integrity 
and honourable principles of his friend Polixenes, as 
well as the excellent disposition of his virtuous queen, 
he was seized with an ungovernable jealousy. Every 
attention Hermione showed to Polixenes, though by 
her husband's particular desire, and merely to please 
him, increased the unfortunate king's jealousy, and 
from being a loving and a true friend, and the best 
and fondest of husbands, Leontes became suddenly a 
savage and inhuman monster. Sending for Camillo, one of 
the lords of his court, and telling him of the suspicion 
he entertained, he commanded him to poison Polixenes. 

Camillo was a good man; and he, well knowing 
that the jealousy of Leontes had not the slightest foun- 
dation in truth, instead of poisoning Polixenes, ac- 
quainted him with the king his master's orders, and 
agreed to escape with him out of the Sicilian dominions; 
and Polixenes, with the assistance of Camillo, arrived 
safe in his own kingdom of Bohemia, where Camillo 
lived from that time in the king's court, and became 
the chief friend and favourite of Polixenes. 

The flight of Polixenes enraged the jealous Leontes 
still more; he went to the queen's apartment, where 
the good lady was sitting with her little son Mamillus, 
who waa just beginning to tell one of his best stories 
to amuse his mother, when the king entered, and taking 
the child away, sent Hermione to prison. 



the winter's tale. 33 

Mamillus, though but a very young child, loved his 
mother tenderly; and when he saw her so dishonoured, 
and found she was taken from him to be put into a 
prison, he took it deeply to heart, and drooped and 
pined away by slow degrees, losing his appetite and 
his sleep, till it was thought his grief would kill him. 

The king, when he had sent his queen to prison, 
commanded Cleomenes and Dion, two Sicilian lords, 
to go to Delphos, there to inquire of the oracle at the 
temple of Apollo, if his queen had been unfaithful to 
him. 

When Hermione had been a short time in prison, 
she was brought to bed of a daughter; and the poor 
lady received much comfort from the sight of her pretty 
baby, and she said to it, "My poor little prisoner, I 
am as innocent as you are." 

Hermione had a kind friend in the noble-spirited 
Paulina, who was the wife of Antigonus, a Sicilian 
lord; and when the lady Paulina heard her royal mis- 
tress was brought to bed, she went to the prison where 
Hermione was confined; and she said to Emilia, a lady 
who attended upon Hermione, "I pray you, Emilia, 
tell the good queen, if her majesty dare trust me with 
her little babe, I will cany it to the king, its father; 
we do not know how he may soften at the sight of his 
innocent child." "Most worthy madam," replied Emilia, 
"I will acquaint the queen with your noble offer; she 
was wishing to-day that she had any friend who would 
venture to present the child to the king." "And tell 
her," said Paulina, "that I will speak boldly toLeontes 
in her defence." "May you be for ever blessed," said 
Emilia, "for your kindness to our gracious queen!" 
Emilia then went to Hermione, who joyfully gave up 
Tales from Shakspeare, 3 



34 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

her baby to the care of Paulina, for she had feared 
that no one would dare venture to present the child to 
its father. 

Paulina took the new-born infant, and forcing her- 
self into the king's presence, notwithstanding her hus- 
band, fearing the king's anger, endeavoured to prevent 
her, she laid the babe at its father's feet, and Paulina 
made a noble speech to the king in defence of Hermione, 
and she reproached him severely for his inhumanity, 
and implored him to have mercy on his innocent wife 
and child. But Paulina's spirited remonstrances only 
aggravated Leontes' displeasure, and he ordered her 
husband Antigonus to take her from his presence. 

When Paulina went away, she left the little baby 
at its father's feet, thinking when he was alone with 
it, he would look upon it, and have pity on its help- 
less innocence. 

The good Paulina was mistaken: for no sooner was 
she gone than the merciless father ordered Antigonus, 
Paulina's husband, to take the child, and carry it out 
to sea, and leave it upon some desert shore to perish. 

Antigonus, unlike the good Camillo, too well obeyed 
the orders of Leontes ; for he immediately carried the 
child on ship-board, and put out to sea, intending to 
leave it on the first desert coast he could find. 

So firmly was the king persuaded of the guilt of 
Hermione, that he would not wait for the return of 
Cleomenes and Dion, whom he had sent to consult the 
oracle of Apollo at Delphos; but before the queen was 
recovered from her lying-in, and from her grief for the 
loss of her precious baby, he had her brought to a 
public trial before all the lords and nobles of his court. 
And when all the great lords, the judges, and all the 



35 

nobility of the land were assembled together to try 
Hermione, and that unhappy queen was standing as a 
prisoner before her subjects to receive their judgment, 
Cleomenes and Dion entered the assembly, and pre- 
sented to the king the answer of the oracle, sealed up; 
and Leontes commanded the seal to be broken, and 
the words of the oracle to be read aloud, and these 
were the words : "Hermione is innocent , Polixenes 
blameless , Camillo a time subject , Leontes a jealous ty- 
rant, and the king shall live without an heir if that 
which is lost be not found." The king would give no 
credit to the words of the oracle: he said it was a false- 
hood invented by the queen's friends, and he desired 
the judge to proceed in the trial of the queen; but while 
Leontes was speaking, a man entered and told him that 
the prince Mamillus, hearing his mother was to be tried 
for her life, struck with grief and shame, had sud- 
denly died. 

Hermione, upon hearing of the death of this dear 
affectionate child, who had lost his life in sorrowing 
for her misfortune, fainted; and Leontes, pierced to the 
heart by the news, began to feel pity for his unhappy 
queen, and he ordered Paulina, and the ladies who 
were her attendants, to take her away, and use means 
for her recovery. Paulina soon returned, and told the 
king that Hermione was dead. 

When Leontes heard that the queen was dead, he 
repented of his cruelty to her; and now that he thought 
his ill usage had broken Hermione's heart, he believed 
her innocent; and now he thought the words of the 
oracle were true, as he knew "if that which was lost 
was not found," which he concluded, was his young 
daughter, he should be without an heir, the young 

3* 



36 TALES FROM SHARSPEARE. 

prince Mamillus being dead; and lie would give his 
kingdom now to recover his lost daughter: and Leontes 
gave himself up to remorse , and passed many years in 
mournful thoughts and repentant grief. 

The ship in which Antigonus carried the infant 
princess out to sea, was driven by a storm upon the 
coast of Bohemia, the very kingdom of the good king 
Polixenes. Here Antigonus landed, and here he left 
the little baby. 

Antigonus never returned to Sicily to tell Leontes 
where he had left his daughter, for as he was going 
back to the ship, a bear came out of the woods, and 
tore him to pieces; a just punishment on him for obey- 
ing the wicked order of Leontes. 

The child was dressed in rich clothes and jewels; 
for Hermione had made it very fine when she sent it 
to Leontes, and Antigonus had pinned a paper to its 
mantle, and the name of Perdita written thereon, and 
words obscurely intimating its high birth and unto- 
ward fate. 

This poor deserted baby was found by a shepherd. 
He was a humane man, and so he carried the little 
Perdita home to his wife, who nursed it tenderly; but 
poverty tempted the shepherd to conceal the rich prize 
he had found; therefore he left that part of the country, 
that no one might know where he got his riches, and 
with part of Perdita's jewels he bought herds of sheep, 
and became a wealthy shepherd. He brought up Per- 
dita as his own child, and she knew not she was any 
other than a shepherd's daughter. 

The little Perdita grew up a lovely maiden; and 
though she had no better education than that of a 
shepherd's daughter, yet so did the natural graces she 



the winter's tale. 37 

inherited from her royal mother shine forth in her un- 
tutored mind, that no one from her behaviour would 
have known she had not been brought up in her father's 
court. 

Polixenes, the king of Bohemia, had an only son, 
whose name was Florizel. As this young prince was 
hunting near the shepherd's dwelling, he saw the old 
man's supposed daughter; and the beauty, modesty, 
and queen-like deportment of Perdita caused him in- 
stantly to fall in love with her. He soon, under the 
name of Doricles , and in the disguise of a private gen- 
tleman, became a constant visitor at the old shepherd's 
house. 

Florizel's frequent absences from court alarmed 
Polixenes; and setting people to watch his son, he dis- 
covered his love for the shepherd's fair daughter. 

Polixenes then called for Camillo, the faithful Ca- 
millo, who had pfeserved his life from the fury of 
Leontes, and desired that he would accompany him 
to the house of the shepherd, the supposed father of 
Perdita. 

Polixenes and Camillo, both in disguise, arrived 
at the old shepherd's dwelling while they were cele- 
brating the feast of sheep-shearing; and though they 
were strangers, yet at the sheep-shearing every guest 
being made welcome, they were invited to walk in, 
and join in the general festivity. 

Nothing but mirth and jollity was going forward. 
Tables were spread, and great preparations were making 
for the rustic feast Some lads and lasses were dancing 
on the green before the house, while others of the 
young men were buying ribands, gloves, and such 
toys, of a pedlar at the door. 



38 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

While tliis busy scene was going forward, Florizel 
and Perdita sat quietly in a retired corner, seemingly 
more pleased with the conversation of each other, than 
desirous of engaging in the sports and silly amusements 
of those around them. 

The king was so disguised that it was impossible 
his son could know him; he therefore advanced near 
enough to hear the conversation. The simple yet ele- 
gant manner in which Perdita conversed with his son 
did not a little surprise Polixenes: he said to Camillo, 
"This is the prettiest low-born lass I ever saw, nothing 
she does or says but looks like something greater than 
herself, too noble for this place." 

Camillo replied, "Indeed she is the very queen of 
curds and cream." 

"Pray, my good friend," said the king to the old 
shepherd, "what fair swain is that talking with your 
daughter?" "They call him Doricles," replied the 
shepherd. "He says he loves my daughter; and to 
speak truth, there is not a kiss to choose which loves 
the other best. If young Doricles can get her, she 
shall bring him that he little dreams of;" meaning the 
remainder of Perdita's jewels; which, after he had 
bought herds of sheep with part of them, he had care- 
fully hoarded up for her marriage portion. 

Polixenes then addressed his son. "How now, young 
man!" said he: "your heart seems full of something 
that takes off your mind from feasting. When I was 
young, I used to load my love with presents; but you 
have let the pedlar go, and have bought your lass no 
toy." 

The young prince, who little thought he was talk- 
ing to the king his father, replied, "Old sir, she prizes 



the winter's tale. 39 

not such trifles; the gifts which Perdita expects from 
me are locked up in my heart." Then turning to Per- 
dita, he said to her, u O hear me, Perdita, before this 
ancient gentleman, who it seems was once himself a j 
lover; he shall hear what I profess." Florizel then 
called upon the old stranger to be a witness to a solemn 
promise of marriage which he made to Perdita, saying 
to Polixenes, "I pray you, mark our contract." 

"Mark your divorce, young sir," said the king, 
discovering himself. Polixenes then reproached his son 
for daring to contract himself to this low-born maiden, 
calling Perdita, "shepherd's-brat, sheep-hook," and other 
disrespectful names; and threatening, if ever she suffered 
his son to see her again, he would put her, and the old 
shepherd her father, to a cruel death. 

The king then left them in great wrath, and or- 
dered Camillo to follow him with prince Florizel. 

When the king had departed, Perdita, whose royal 
nature was roused by Polixenes' reproaches, said, 
"Though we are all undone, I was not much afraid; 
and once or twice I was about to speak, and tell him 
plainly that the selfsame sun which shines upon his 
palace, hides not his face from our cottage, but looks 
on both alike." Then sorrowfully she said, "But now 
I am awakened from this dream, I will queen it no 
further. Leave me, sir; I will go milk my ewes and 
weep." 

The kind-hearted Camillo was charmed with the 
spirit and propriety of Perdita's behaviour; and per- 
ceiving that the young prince was too deeply in love 
to give up his mistress at the command of his royal 
father, he thought of a way to befriend the lovers, and 



40 TALES PROM SHAXSPEARE. 

at the same time to execute a favourite scheme he had 
in his mind. 

Camillo had long known that Leontes, the king of 
Sicily, was become a true penitent; and though Camillo 
was now the favoured friend of king Polixenes, he could 
not help wishing once more to see his late royal master 
and his native home. He therefore proposed to Florizel 
and Perdita, that they should accompany him to the 
Sicilian court, where he would engage Leontes should 
protect them, till, through his mediation, they could 
obtain pardon from Polixenes, and his consent to their 
marriage. 

To this proposal they joyfully agreed; and Camillo, 
who conducted everything relative to their flight, allowed 
the old shepherd to go along with them. 

The shepherd took with him the remainder of Per- 
dita's jewels, her baby clothes, and the paper which 
he had found pinned to her mantle. 

After a prosperous voyage, Florizel and Perdita, 
Camillo and the old shepherd, arrived in safety at the 
court of Leontes. Leontes, who still mourned his dead 
Hermione and his lost child, received Camillo with 
great kindness, and gave a cordial welcome to prince 
Florizel. But Perdita, whom Florizel introduced as 
his princess, seemed to engross all Leontes' attention: 
perceiving a resemblance between her and his dead 
queen Hermione, his grief broke out afresh, and he 
said, such a lovely creature might his own daughter 
have been, if he had not so cruelly destroyed her. 
"And then, too," said he to Florizel, "I lost the society 
and friendship of your brave father, whom I now desire 
more than my life once again to look upon." 

When the old shepherd heard how much notice the 



THE WINTER'S TALE. 41 

king had taken of Perdita, and that he had lost a 
daughter, who was exposed in infancy, he fell to com- 
paring the time when he found the little Perdita, with 
the manner of its exposure, the jewels and other tokens 
of its high birth; from all which it was impossible for 
him not to conclude, that Perdita and the king's lost 
daughter were the same. 

Florizel and Perdita, Camillo and the faithful Pau- 
lina, were present when the old shepherd related to 
the king the manner in which he had found the child, 
and also the circumstance of Antigonus' death, he 
having seen the bear seize upon him. He showed the 
rich mantle in which Paulina remembered Hermione 
had wrapped the child; and he produced a jewel which 
she remembered Hermione had tied about Perdita's 
neck, and he gave up the paper which Paulina knew to 
be the writing of her husband; it could not be doubted 
that Perdita was Eeontes' own daughter: but oh! the 
noble struggles of Paulina, between sorrow for her hus- 
band's death, and joy that the oracle was fulfilled, in 
the king's heir, his long-lost daughter being found. 
When Leontes heard that Perdita was his daughter, the 
great sorrow that he felt that Hermione was not living 
to behold her child, made him that he could say 
nothing for a long time, but, "0 thy mother, thy 
mother I" 

Paulina interrupted this joyful yet distressful scene, 
with saying to Leontes, that she had a statue, newly 
finished by that rare Italian master, Julio Romano, 
which was such a perfect resemblance of the queen, 
that would his majesty be pleased to go to her house 
and look upon it, he would be almost ready to think 
it was Hermione herself. Thither then they all went} 



42 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

the king anxious to see the semblance of his Hermione > 
and Perdita longing to behold what the mother she 
never saw did look like. 

When Paulina drew back the curtain which con- 
cealed this famous statue, so perfectly did it resemble 
Hermione, that all the king's sorrow was renewed at 
the sight: for a long time he had no power to speak 
or move. 

"I like your silence, my liege," said Paulina, "it 
the more shows your wonder. Is not this statue very 
like your queen?" 

At length the king said, "0, thus she stood, even 
with such majesty, when I first wooed her. But yet, 
Paulina, Hermione was not so aged as this statue 
looks." Paulina replied, "So much the more the 
carver's excellence, who has made the statue as Her- 
mione would have looked had she been living now. 
But let me draw the curtain, sire, lest presently you 
think it moves." 

The king then said, "Do not draw the curtain! 
Would I were dead! See, Camillo, would you not 
think it breathed? Her eye seems to have motion in 
it." "I must draw the curtain, my liege," said Paulina. 
"You are so transported, you will persuade yourself the 
statue lives." " 0, sweet Paulina," said Leontes, " make 
me think so twenty years together! Still methinks there 
is an air comes from her. What fine chisel could ever 
yet cut breath? Let no man mock me, for I will kiss 
her." "Good, my lord, forbear!" said Paulina. "The 
ruddiness upon her lip is wet; you will stain your own 
with oily painting. Shall I draw the curtain?" "No. 
not these twenty years," said Leontes. 

Perdita who all this time had been kneeling, and 



the winter's tale. 43 

beholdiug in silent admiration the statue of her match- 
less mother, said now, "And so long could I stay here, 
looking upon my dear mother." 

"Either forbear this transport," said Paulina to 
Leontes, "and let me draw the curtain; or prepare 
yourself for more amazement. I can make the statue 
move indeed; ay, and descend from off the pedestal, 
and take you by the hand. But then you will think, 
which I protest I am not, that I am assisted by some 
wicked powers." 

"What you can make her do," said the astonished 
king, "I am content to look upon. What you can 
make her speak, I am content to hear; for it is as easy 
to make her speak as move." 

Paulina then ordered some slow and solemn music, 
which she had prepared for the purpose, to strike up; 
and to the amazement of all the beholders, the statue 
came down from "off the pedestal, and threw its arms 
around Leontes' neck. The statue then began to speak, 
praying for blessings on her husband, and on her child, 
the newly-found Perdita. 

No wonder that the statue hung upon Leontes 7 neck, 
and blessed her husband and her child. No wonder; 
for the statue was indeed Hermione herself, the real, 
the living queen. 

Paulina had falsely reported to the king the death 
of Hermione, thinking that the only means to preserve 
her royal mistress' life; and with the good Paulina, 
Hermione had lived ever since, never choosing Leontes 
should know she was living, till she heard Perdita 
was found; for though she had long forgiven the in- 
juries which Leontes had done to herself, she could 
not pardon his cruelty to his infant daughter. 



44 TALES FROM SHAKSPJGARE. 

His dead queen thus restored to life, his lost daughter 
found, the long-sorrowing Leontes could scarcely sup- 
port the excess of his own happiness. 

Nothing but congratulations and affectionate speeches 
were heard on all sides. Now the delighted parents 
thanked prince Morizel for loving their lowly-seeming 
daughter; and now they blessed the good old shepherd 
for preserving their child. Greatly did Camillo and 
Paulina rejoice, that they had lived to see so good an 
end of all their faithful services. 

And as if nothing should be wanting to complete 
this strange and unlooked-for joy, king Polixenes him- 
self now entered the palace. 

When Polixenes first missed his son and Camillo, 
knowing that Camillo had long wished to return to 
Sicily, he conjectured he should find the fugitives here; 
and, following them with all speed, he happened to 
arrive just at this, the happiest moment of Leontes' 
life. 

Polixenes took a part in the general joy, he for- 
gave his friend Leontes the unjust jealousy he had 
conceived against him, and they once more loved each 
other with all the warmth of their first boyish friend- 
ship. And there was no fear that Polixenes would now 
oppose his son's marriage with Perdita. She was no 
"sheep-hook" now, but the heiress of the crown of 
Sicily. 

Thus have we seen the patient virtues of the long- 
suffering Hermione rewarded. That excellent lady lived 
many years with her Leontes and her Perdita, the 
happiest of mothers and of queens. 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 45 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 



There lived in the palace at Messina two ladies, 
whose names were Hero and Beatrice. Hero was the 
daughter, and Beatrice the niece, of Leonato, the 
governor of Messina. 

Beatrice was of a lively temper, and loved to divert 
her cousin Hero , who was of a more serious disposition, 
with her sprightly sallies. "Whatever was going forward 
was sure to make matter of mirth for the light-hearted 
Beatrice. 

At the time the history of these ladies commences, 
some young men of high rank in the army, as they 
were passing through Messina on their return from a 
war that was just ended, in which they had distin- 
guished themselves by their great bravery, came to 
visit Leonato. Among these were Don Pedro, the 
Prince of Arragon; aud his friend Claudio, who was a 
lord of Florence; and with them came the wild and 
witty Benedick, and he was a lord of Padua. 

These strangers had been at Messina before, and 
the hospitable governor introduced them to his daughter 
and his niece as their old friends and acquaintance. 

Benedick, the moment he entered the room, began 
a lively conversation with Leonato and the prince. 
Beatrice, who liked not to be left out of any discourse, 
interrupted Benedick with saying, "I wonder that you 



46 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

will still be talking, signior Benedick; nobody marks 
you." Benedick was just such another rattle-brain as 
Beatrice, yet he was not pleased at this free salutation; 
he thought it did not become a well-bred lady to be so 
flippant with her tongue; and he remembered, when he 
was last at Messina, that Beatrice used to select him 
to make her merry jests upon. And as there is no one 
who so little likes to be made a jest of, as those who 
are apt to take the same liberty themselves, so it was 
with Benedick and Beatrice; these two sharp wits never 
met in former times but a perfect war of raillery was 
kept up between them, and they always parted mutually 
displeased with each other. Therefore when Beatrice 
stopped him in the middle of his discourse with telling 
him nobody marked what he was saying, Benedick, 
affecting not to have observed before that she was pre- 
sent, said, "What, my dear lady Disdain, are you yet 
living?" And now war broke out afresh between them, 
and a long jangling argument ensued, during which 
Beatrice, although she knew he had so well approved 
his valour in the late war, said that she would eat all 
he had killed there: and observing the prince take de- 
light in Benedick's conversation, she called him "the 
prince's jester." This sarcasm sunk deeper into the 
mind of Benedick than all Beatrice had said before. 
The hint she gave him that he was a coward, by say- 
ing she would eat all he had killed, he did not regard, 
knowing himself to be a brave man: but there is no- 
thing that great wits so much dread as the imputation 
of buffoonery, because the charge comes sometimes a 
little too near the truth: therefore Benedick perfectly 
hated Beatrice, when she called him "the prince's 
jester." 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 47 

Tlie modest lady Hero was silent before the noble 
guests; and while Claudio was attentively observing 
the improvement which time had made in her beauty, 
and was contemplating the exquisite graces of her fine 
figure (for she was an admirable young lady), the 
prince was highly amused with listening to the hu- 
morous dialogue between Benedick and Beatrice; and 
he said in a whisper to Leonato, "This is a pleasant- 
spirited young lady. She were an excellent wife for 
Benedick." Leonato replied to this suggestion, "0, 
my lord, my lord, if they were but a week married, 
they would talk themselves mad." But though Leonato 
thought they would make a discordant pair, the prince 
did not give up the idea of matching these two keen 
wits together. 

"When the prince returned with Claudio from the 
palace, he found^ that the marriage he had devised 
between Benedick and Beatrice was not the only one 
projected in that good company, for Claudio spoke in 
such terms of Hero, as made the prince guess at what 
was passing in his heart; and he liked it well, and he 
said to Claudio, "Do you affect Hero?" To this ques- 
tion Claudio replied, "0 my lord, when I was last at 
Messina, I looked upon her with a soldier's eye, that 
liked, but had no leisure for loving; but now, in this 
happy time of peace, thoughts of war have left their 
places vacant in my mind, and in their room come 
thronging soft and delicate thoughts , all prompting me 
how fair young Hero is, reminding me that I liked her 
before I went to the wars." Claudio's confession of his 
love for Hero so wrought upon the prince, that he lost 
no time in soliciting the consent of Leonato to accept 
of Claudio for a son-in-law. Leonato agreed to this 



48 TALES FROM SHAKSrEARE. 

proposal , and the prince found no great difficulty in 
persuading the gentle Hero herself to listen to the suit 
of the noble Claudio, who was a lord of rare endow- 
ments, and highly accomplished; and Glaudio, assisted 
by his kind prince, soon prevailed upon Leonato to fix 
an early day for the celebration of his marriage with 
Hero. 

Claudio was to wait but a few days before he was 
to be married to his fair lady; yet he complained of 
the interval being tedious, as indeed most young men 
are impatient when they are waiting for the accomplish- 
ment of any event they have set their hearts upon: the 
prince, therefore, to make the time seem short to him, 
proposed as a kind of merry pastime that they should 
invent some artful scheme to make Benedick and Bea- 
trice fall in love with each other. Claudio entered 
with great satisfaction into this whim of the prince, 
and Leonato promised them his assistance, and even 
Hero said she would do any modest office to help her 
cousin to a good husband. 

The device the prince invented was, that the gentle- 
men should make Benedick believe that Beatrice was 
in love with him, and that Hero should make Beatrice 
believe that Benedick was in love with her. 

The prince, Leonato, and Claudio began their 
operations first; and watching an opportunity when 
Benedick was quietly seated reading in an arbour, the 
prince and his assistants took their station among the 
trees behind the arbour, so near that Benedick could 
not choose but hear all they said; and after some care- 
less talk the prince said, "Come hither, Leonato. What 
was it you told me the other day — that your niece 
Beatrice was in love with signior Benedick? I did 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTH1XO. 49 

never think that lady would have loved any man." 
"No, nor I neither, my lord," answered Leonato. "It 
is most wonderful that she should so dote on Benedick, 
whom she in all outward behaviour seemed ever to dis- 
like." Claudio confirmed all this, with saying that 
Hero had told him Beatrice was so in love with Be- 
nedick, that she would certainly die of grief, if he could 
not be brought to love her; which Leonato and Claudio 
seemed to agree was impossible, he having always been 
such a railer against all fair ladies, and in particular 
against Beatrice. 

The prince affected to hearken to all this with great 
compassion for Beatrice, and he said, "It were good 
that Benedick were told of this." "To what end?" 
said Claudio; "he would but make sport of it, and 
torment the poor lady worse." "And if he should," 
said the prince, "it were a good deed to hang him; 
for Beatrice is an excellent sweet lady, and exceeding 
wise in everything but in loving Benedick." Then the 
prince motioned to his companions that they should 
walk on, and leave Benedick to meditate upon what 
lie had overheard. 

Benedick had been listening with great eagerness 
to this conversation; and he said to himself when he 
heard Beatrice loved him, "Is it possible? Sits the 
wind in that corner?" And when they were gone, he 
began to reason in this manner with himself: "This 
can be no trick! they were very serious, and they 
have the truth from Hero, and seem to pity the lady. 
Love me! Why it must be requited! I did never think 
to marry. But when I said I should die a bachelor, I 
did not think I should live to be married. They say 
the lady is virtuous and fair. She is so. And wise in 

Tales from Shakspeare. 4 



50 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

everything but in loving me, Why that is no great 
argument of her folly. But here comes Beatrice. By 
this day, she is a fair lady. I do spy some marks of 
love in her." Beatrice now approached him, and said 
with her usual tartness, "Against my will I am sent 
to bid you come in to dinner." Benedick, who never 
felt himself disposed to speak so politely to her before, 
replied, "Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains:" 
and when Beatrice, after two or three more rude 
speeches, left him, Benedick thought he observed a 
concealed meaning of kindness under the uncivil words 
she uttered, and he said aloud, "If I do not take pity 
on her, I am a villain. If I do not love her, I am a 
Jew. I will go get her picture." 

The gentleman being thus caught in the net they 
had spread for him, it was now Hero's turn to play 
her part with Beatrice; and for this purpose she sent 
for Ursula and Margaret, two gentlewomen who at- 
tended upon her, and she said to Margaret, "Good 
Margaret, run to the parlour; there you will find my 
cousin Beatrice talking with the prince and Claudio. 
Whisper in her ear, that I and Ursula are walking in 
the orchard, and that our discourse is all of her. Bid 
her steal into that pleasant arbour, where honeysuckles, 
ripened by the sun, like ungrateful minions, forbid the 
sun to enter." This arbour, into which Hero desired 
Margaret to entice Beatrice, was the very same pleasant 
arbour where Benedick had so lately been an attentive 
listener. 

"I will make her come, I warrant, presently," said 
Margaret. 

Hero, then taking Ursula with her into the orchard, 
said to her, "Now Ursula, when Beatrice comes, we 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 51 

will walk up and down this alley, and our talk must be 
only of Benedick, and when I name him, let it be your 
part to praise him more than ever man did merit. My 
talk to you must be how Benedick is in love with 
Beatrice. Now begin; for look where Beatrice like a 
lapwing runs close by the ground, to hear our con- 
ference." They then began; Hero saying, as if in 
answer to something which Ursula had said, "No, truly, 
Ursula. She is too disdainful; her spirits are as coy as 
wild birds of the rock." "But are you sure," said 
Ursula, "that Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely?" 
Hero replied, "So says the prince, and my lord Claudio, 
and they entreated me to acquaint her with it; but I 
persuaded them, if they loved Benedick, never to let 
Beatrice know of it." "Certainly," replied Ursula, "it 
were not good she knew his love, lest she made sport 
of it." "Why,, to say truth," said Hero, "I never yet 
saw a man, how wise* soever, or noble, young, or rarely 
featured, but she would dispraise him." "Sure, sure, 
such carping is not commendable," said Ursula. "No," 
replied Hero, "but who dare tell her so? If I should 
speak, she would mock me into air." "0 you wrong 
your cousin," said Ursula: "she cannot be so much 
without true judgment, as to refuse so rare a gentle- 
man as signior Benedick." "He hath an excellent good 
name," said Hero: "indeed he is the first man in Italy, 
always excepting my dear Claudio." And now, Hero 
giving her attendant a hint that it was time to change 
the discourse, Ursula said, "And when are you to be 
married, madam?" Hero then told her, that she was 
to be married to Claudio the next day, and desired 
she would go in with her, and look at some new attire, 
as she wished to consult with her on what she would 

4* 



52 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

wear on the morrow. Beatrice, who had been listening 
with breathless eagerness to this dialogue, when they 
went away, exclaimed, "What fire is in mine ears? 
Can this be true? Farewell contempt and scorn! and 
maiden pride, adieu! Benedick, love on! I will requite 
you, taming my wild heart to your loving hand." 

It must have been a pleasant sight to see these old 
enemies converted into new and loving friends, and to 
behold their first meeting after being cheated into 
mutual liking by the merry artifice of the good- 
humoured prince. But a sad reverse in the fortunes 
of Hero must now be thought of. The morrow, which 
was to have been her wedding-day, brought sorrow on 
the heart of Hero and her good father Leonato. 

The prince had a half-brother, who came from the 
wars along with him to Messina. This brother (his 
name was Don John) was a melancholy discontented 
man, whose spirits seemed to labour in the contriving 
of villanies. He hated the prince his brother, and he 
hated Claudio, because he was the prince's friend, and 
determined to prevent Claudio's marriage with Hero, 
only for the malicious pleasure of making Claudio and 
the prince unhappy, for he knew the prince had set 
his heart upon this marriage, almost as much as Claudio 
himself; and to effect this wicked purpose, he employed 
one Borachio, a man as bad as himself, whom he en- 
couraged with the offer of a great reward. This Borachio 
paid his court to Margaret, Hero's attendant; and Don 
John, knowing this, prevailed upon him to make Mar- 
garet promise to talk with him from her lady's chamber 
window that night, after Hero was asleep, and also to 
dress herself in Hero's clothes, the better to deceive 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 53 

Claudio into the belief that it was Hero; for that was 
the end he meant to compass by this wicked plot. 

Don John then went to the prince and Claudio, and 
told them that Hero was an imprudent lady, and that 
she talked with men from her chamber-window at mid- 
night. Now this was the evening before the wedding, 
and he offered to take them that night, where they 
should themselves hear Hero discoursing with a man 
from her window; and they consented to go along with 
him, and Claudio said, "If I see anything to-night why 
I should not marry her, to-morrow in the congregation, 
where I intended to wed her, there will I shame her." 
The prince also said, "And as I assisted you to obtain 
her, I will join with you to disgrace her." 

When Don John brought them near Hero's cham- 
ber that night, they saw Borachio standing under the 
window, and they saw Margaret looking out of Hero's 
window, and heard her talking with Borachio: and 
Margaret being dressed in the same clothes they had 
seen Hero wear, the prince and Claudio believed it 
was the lady Hero herself. 

Nothing could equal the anger of Claudio, when he 
had made (as he thought) this discovery. All his love 
for the innocent Hero was at once converted into hatred, 
and he resolved to expose her in the church, as he 
had said he would, the next day; and the prince agreed 
to this, thinking no punishment could be too severe for 
the naughty lady, who talked with a man from her 
window the very night before she was going to be 
married to the noble Claudio. 

The next day, when they were all met to celebrate 
the marriage, and Claudio and Hero were standing 
before the priest, and the priest, or friar, as he was 



54 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

called, was proceeding to pronounce the marriage cere- 
mony, Claudio, in the most passionate language, pro- 
claimed the guilt of the blameless Hero, who, amazed 
at the strange words he uttered, said meekly, "Is my 
lord well, that he does speak so wide?" 

Leonato, in the utmost horror, said to the prince, 
"My lord, why speak not you?" "What should I 
speak?" said the prince; "I stand dishonoured, that 
have gone about to link my dear friend to an un- 
worthy woman. Leonato, upon my honour, myself, 
my brother, and this grieved Claudio, did see and hear 
her last night at midnight talk with a man at her 
chamber window." 

Benedick, in astonishment at what he heard, said, 
"This looks not like a nuptial." 

"True, OGod!" replied the heart-struck Hero; and 
then this hapless lady sunk down in a fainting fit, to 
all appearance dead. The prince and Claudio left the 
church, without staying to see if Hero would recover, 
or at all regarding the distress into which they had 
thrown Leonato. So hard-hearted had their anger 
made them. 

Benedick remained, and assisted Beatrice to recover 
Hero from her swoon, saying, "How does the lady?" 
"Dead, I think," replied Beatrice in great agony, for 
she loved her cousin; and knowing her virtuous prin- 
ciples, she believed nothing of what she had heard 
spoken against her. Not so the poor old father; he 
believed the story of his child's shame, and it was 
piteous to hear him lamenting over her, as she lay like 
one dead before him, wishing she might never more 
open her eyes. 

But the ancient friar was a wise man, and full of 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 55 

observation on human nature, and he had attentively- 
marked the lady's countenance when she heard herself 
accused, and noted a thousand blushing shames to start 
into her face, and then he saw an angel-like whiteness 
bear away those blushes, and in her eye he saw a fire 
that did belie the error that the prince did speak 
against her maiden truth, and he said to the sorrowing 
father, "Call me a fool; trust not my reading, nor my 
observation; trust not my age, my reverence, nor my 
calling, if this sweet lady lie not guiltless here under 
some biting error." 

When Hero recovered from the swoon into which 
she had fallen, the friar said to her, "Lady, what man 
is he you are accused of?" Hero replied, "They know 
that do accuse me; I know of none:" then turning to 
Leonato, she said, "0 my father, if you can prove 
that any man has ever conversed with me at hours 
unmeet, or that I yesternight changed words with any 
creature, refuse me, hate me, torture me to death." 

"There is," said the friar, "some strange misunder- 
standing in the prince and Claudio; and then he coun- 
selled Leonato, that he should report that Hero was 
dead; and he said, that the death-like swoon in which 
they had left Hero would make this easy of belief; 
and he also advised him that he should put on mourn- 
ing, and erect a monument for her, and do all rites 
that appertain to a burial. "What shall become of 
this?" said Leonato; "What will this do?" The friar 
replied, " This report of her death shall change slander 
into pity: that is some good; but that is not all the 
good I hope for. When Claudio shall hear she died 
upon hearing his words, the idea of her life shall 
sweetly creep into his imagination. Then shall he 



56 TALES FKOM SHAKSPEARB. 

mourn, if ever love had interest in his heart, and wish 
he had not so accused her; yea, though he thought his 
accusation true." 

Benedick now said, "Leonato, let the friar advise 
you ; and though you know how well I love the prince 
and Claudio, yet on my honour I will not reveal this 
secret to them." 

Leonato, thus persuaded, yielded; and he said sor- 
rowfully, "I am so grieved, that the smallest twine 
may lead me." The kind friar then led Leonato and 
Hero away to comfort and console them, and Beatrice 
and Benedick remained alone; and this was the meeting 
from which their friends, who contrived the merry plot 
against them, expected so much diversion; those friends 
who were now overwhelmed with affliction, and from 
whose minds all thoughts of merriment seemed for 
ever banished. 

Benedick was the first who spoke, and he said, 
"Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?" "Yea, 
and I will weep a while longer," said Beatrice. " Surely," 
said Benedick, "I do believe your fair cousin is 
wronged." "Ah!" said Beatrice, "how much might 
that man deserve of me who would right her!" Bene- 
dick, then said, "Is there any way to show such friend- 
ship? I do love nothing in the world so well as you: 
is not that strange?" "It were as possible," said Bea- 
trice, "for me to say I loved nothing in the world so 
well as you; but believe me not, and yet I lie not. I 
confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I am sorry for 
my cousin." "By my sword," said Benedick, "you 
love me, and I protest I love you. Come, bid me do 
anything for you." "Kill Claudio," said Beatrice. 
"Ha! not for the wide world," said Benedick; for ho 



MUCII ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 57 

loved his friend Claudio, and he believed he had been 
imposed upon. "Is not Claudio a villain, that has 
slandered, scorned, and dishonoured my cousin?" said 
Beatrice: "0 that I were a man ! " "Hear me, Beatrice!" 
said Benedick. But Beatrice would hear nothing in 
Claudio's defence; and she continued to urge on Bene- 
dick to revenge her cousin's wrongs: and she said, 
"Talk with a man out of the window; a proper say- 
ing! Sweet Hero! she is wronged; she is slandered; 
she is undone. that I were a man for Claudio's 
sake! or that I had any friend, who would be a 
man for my sake! but valour is melted into cour- 
tesies and compliments. I cannot be a man with 
wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving." 
"Tarry, good Beatrice," said Benedick: "by this hand 
I love you." "Use it for my love some other way 
than swearing by it," said Beatrice. "Think you on 
your soul, that Claudio has wronged Hero?" asked 
Benedick. "Yea," answered Beatrice; "as sure as I 
have a thought, or a soul." "Enough," said Benedick; 
"I am engaged; I will challenge him. I will kiss your 
hand, and so leave you. By this hand, Claudio shall 
render me a dear account! As you hear from me, so 
think of me. Go, comfort your cousin." 

While Beatrice was thus powerfully pleading with 
Benedick, and working his gallant temper by the spirit 
of her angry words, to engage in the cause of Hero, 
and fight even with his dear friend Claudio, Leonato 
was challenging the prince and Claudio to answer with 
their swords the injury they had done his child, who, 
he affirmed, had died for grief. But they respected 
his age and his sorrow, and they said, "Nay, do not 
quarrel with us, good old man." And now came 



58 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Benedick, and he also challenged Claudio to answer 
with his sword the injury he had done to Hero; and 
Claudio and the prince said to each other, "Beatrice 
has set him on to do this." Claudio nevertheless must 
have accepted this challenge of Benedick, had not the 
justice of Heaven at the moment brought to pass a 
better proof of the innocence of Hero than the uncer- 
tain fortune of a duel. 

While the prince and Claudio were yet talking of 
the challenge of Benedick, a magistrate brought 
Borachio as a prisoner before the prince. Borachio had 
been overheard talking with one of his companions 
of the mischief he had been employed by Don John 
to do. 

Borachio made a full confession to the prince in 
Claudio's hearing, that it was Margaret dressed in her 
lady's clothes that he had talked with from the window, 
whom they had mistaken for the lady Hero herself; 
and no doubt continued on the minds of Claudio and 
the prince of the innocence of Hero. If a suspicion 
had remained it must have been removed by the flight 
of Don John, who, finding his villanies were detected, 
fled from Messina to avoid the just anger of his 
brother. 

The heart of Claudio was sorely grieved when he 
found he had falsely accused Hero, who, he thought, 
died upon hearing his cruel words; and the memory 
of his beloved Hero's image came over him, in the rare 
semblance that he loved it first; and the prince asking 
him if what he heard did not run like iron through his 
soul, he answered, that he felt as if he had taken poi- 
son while Borachio was speaking. 

And the repentant Claudio implored forgiveness of 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 59 

the old man Leonato for the injury he had done his 
child; and promised, that whatever penance Leonato 
would lay upon him for his fault in believing the false 
accusation against his betrothed wife, for her dear sake 
he would endure it. 

The penance Leonato enjoined him was, to marry 
the next morning a cousin of Hero's, who, he said, was 
now his heir, and in person very like Hero. Claudio, 
regarding the solemn promise he made to Leonato, said, 
he would marry this unknown lady> even though she 
were an Ethiop: but his heart was very sorrowful, and 
he passed that night in tears, and in remorseful grief, 
at the tomb which Leonato had erected for Hero. 

When the morning came, the prince accompanied 
Claudio to the church, where the good friar, and Leo- 
nato and his niece, were already assembled, to celebrate 
a second nuptial;^ and Leonato presented to Claudio 
his promised bride; and she wore a mask, that Claudio 
might not discover her face. And Claudio said to the 
lady in the mask, "Give me your hand, before this 
holy friar; I am your husband, if you will marry me." 
"And when I lived I was your other wife," said this 
unknown lady; and, taking off her mask, she proved 
to be no niece (as was pretended), but Leonato's very 
daughter, the lady Hero herself. We may be sure 
that this proved a most agreeable surprise to Claudio, 
who thought her dead, so that he could scarcely for 
joy believe his eyes; and the prince, who was equally 
amazed at what he saw, exclaimed, "Is not this Hero, 
Hero that was dead?" Leonato replied, "She died, my 
lord, but while her slander lived." The friar promised 
them an explanation of this seeming miracle, after the 
ceremony was ended; and was proceeding to marry 



60 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

them, when he was interrupted by Benedick, who 
desired to be married at the same time to Beatrice. 
Beatrice making some demur to this match, and Bene- 
dick challenging her with her love for him, which he 
had learned from Hero, a pleasant explanation took 
place; and they found they had both been tricked into 
a belief of love, which had never existed, and had 
become lovers in truth by the power of a false jest: 
but the affection, which a merry invention had cheated 
them into, was grown too powerful to be shaken by a 
serious explanation; and since Benedick proposed to 
marry, he was resolved to think nothing to the purpose 
that the world could say against it; and he merrily 
kept up the jest, and swore to Beatrice, that he took 
her but for pity, and because he heard she was dying 
of love for him; and Beatrice protested, that she 
yielded but upon great persuasion, and partly to save 
his life, for she heard he was in a consumption. So 
these two mad wits were reconciled, and made a match 
of it, after Claudio and Hero were married; and to 
complete the history, Don John, the contriver of the 
villany, was taken in his flight, and brought back to 
Messina; and a brave punishment it was to this gloomy, 
discontented man, to see the joy and feastings which, 
by the disappointment of his plots, took place at the 
palace in Messina. 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 61 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 



During the time that France was divided into pro- 
vinces (or dukedoms as they were called) there reigned 
in one of these provinces an usurper, who had deposed 
and hanished his elder brother, the lawful duke. 

The duke, who was thus driven from his dominions, 
retired with a few faithful followers to the forest of 
Arden; and here the good duke lived with his loving 
friends, who had put themselves into a voluntary exile 
for his sake, while their land and revenues enriched 
the false usurper;* and custom soon made the life of 
careless ease they led here more sweet to them than 
the pomp and uneasy splendour of a courtier's life. 
Here they lived like the old Kobin Hood of England, 
and to this forest many noble youths daily resorted 
from the court, and did fleet the time carelessly, as 
they did who lived in the golden age. In the summer 
they lay along under the fine shade of the large forest 
trees, marking the playful sports of the wild deer; and 
so fond were they of these poor dappled fools, who 
seemed to be the native inhabitants of the forest, that 
it grieved them to be forced to kill them to supply 
themselves with venison for their food. When the cold 
winds of winter made the duke feel the chauge of his 
adverse fortune, he would endure it patiently^ and say, 
"These chilling winds which blow upon my body are 



62 TALES FKOM SHAESPEARE. 

true counsellors: they do not flatter, but represent truly 
to me my condition; and though they bite sharply, 
their tooth is nothing like so keen as that of unkind- 
ness and ingratitude. I find that howsoever men speak 
against adversity, yet some sweet uses are to be ex- 
tracted from it; like the jewel, precious for medicine, 
which is taken from the head of the venomous and 
despised toad." In this manner did the patient duke 
draw a useful moral from every thing that he saw; 
and by the help of this moralising turn, in that life of 
his, remote from public haunts, he could find tongues 
in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, 
and good in everything. 

The banished duke had an only daughter, named 
Rosalind, whom the usurper, duke Frederick, when he 
banished her father, still retained in his court as a 
companion for his own daughter Celia. A strict friend- 
ship subsisted between these ladies, which the disagree- 
ment between their fathers did not in the least inter- 
rupt, Celia striving by every kindness in her power to 
make amends to Rosalind for the injustice of her own 
father in deposing the father of Rosalind; and when- 
ever the thoughts of her father's banishment, and her 
own dependence on the false usurper, made Rosalind 
melancholy, Celia's whole care was to comfort and 
console her. 

One day, when Celia was talking in her usual kind 
manner to Rosalind, saying, "I pray you, Rosalind, 
my sweet cousin, be merry," a messenger entered from 
the duke, to tell them that if they wished to see a 
wrestling match, which was just going to begin, they 
must come instantly to the court before the palace; 



AS YOU LIEJE IT. 63 

and Celia, thinking it would amuse Kosalind, agreed 
to go and see it. 

In those times wrestling, which is only practised 
now by country clowns, was a favourite sport even in 
the courts of princes, and before fair ladies and prin- 
cesses. To this wrestling match therefore Celia and 
Kosalind went. They found that it was likely to prove 
a very tragical sight; for a large and powerful man, 
who had long been practised in the art of wrestling, 
and had slain many men in contests of this kind, was 
just going to wrestle with a very young man, who, 
from his extreme youth and inexperience in the art, 
the beholders all thought would certainly be killed. 

When the duke saw Celia and Eosalind, he said, 
"How now, daughter and niece, are you crept hither 
to see the wrestling? You will take little delight in 
it, there is such odds in the men: in pity to this young 
man, I would wish* to persuade him from wrestling. 
Speak to him, ladies, and see if you can move him. 1 ' 

The ladies were well pleased to perform this hu- 
mane office, and first Celia entreated the young stranger 
that he would desist from the attempt; and then Rosa- 
lind spoke so kindly to him, and with such feeling 
consideration for the danger he was about to undergo, 
that instead of being persuaded by her gentle words 
to forego his purpose, all his thoughts were bent to 
distinguish himself by his courage in this lovely lady's 
eyes. He refused the request of Celia and Eosalind 
in such graceful and modest words, that they felt still 
more concern for him; he concluded his refusal with 
saying, "I am sorry to deny such fair and excellent 
ladies anything. But let your fair eyes and gentle 
wishes go with me to my trial, wherein if I be con- 



64 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

quered there is one shamed that was never gracious; 
if I am killed, there is one dead that is willing to die; 
I shall do my friends no wrong, for I have none to la- 
ment me; the world no injury, for in it I have nothing; 
for I only fill up a place in the world which may be 
better supplied when I have made it empty." 

And now the wrestling-match began. Celia wished 
the young stranger might not be hurt; but Rosalind 
felt most for him. The friendless state which he said 
he was in, and that he wished to die, made Rosalind 
think that he was like herself, unfortunate; and she 
pitied him so much, and so deep an interest she took 
in his danger while he was wrestling, that she might 
almost be said at that moment to have fallen in love 
with him. 

The kindness shown this unknown youth by these 
fair and noble ladies gave him courage and strength, 
so that he performed wonders; and in the end com- 
pletely conquered his antagonist, who was so much 
hurt, that for a while he was unable to speak or move. 

The duke Frederick was much pleased with the 
courage and skill shown by this young stranger; and 
desired to know his name and parentage, meaning to 
take him under his protection 

The stranger said his name was Orlando, and that 
he was the youngest son of sir Rowland de Boys. 

Sir Rowland de Boys, the father of Orlando, had 
been dead some years; but when he was living, he 
had been a true subject and dear friend of the banished 
duke: therefore when Frederick heard Orlando was the 
son of his banished brother's friend, all his liking for 
this brave young man was changed into displeasure, 
and he left the place in very ill humour. Hating to 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 65 

hear the very name of any of his brother's friends, and 
yet still admiring the valour of the youth, he said, as 
he went out, that he wished Orlando had been the son 
of any other man. 

Kosalind was delighted to hear that her new fa- 
vourite was the son of her father's old friend; and she 
said to Celia, "My father loved sir Rowland de Boys, 
and if I had known this young man was his son, I 
would have added tears to my entreaties before he 
should have ventured." 

The ladies then went up to him; and seeing him 
abashed by the sudden displeasure shown by the duke, 
they spoke kind and encouraging words to him; and 
Rosalind, when they were going away, turned back to 
speak some more civil things to the brave young son 
of her father's old friend; and taking a chain from off 
her neck, she said, j' Gentleman, wear this for me. I 
am out of suits with fortune, or I would give you a 
more valuable present." 

When the ladies were alone, Rosalind's talk being 
still of Orlando, Celia began to perceive her cousin 
had fallen in love with the handsome young wrestler, 
and she said to Rosalind, "Is it possible you should 
fall in love so suddenly?" Rosalind replied, "The duke, 
my father, loved his father dearly." "But," said Celia, 
"does it therefore follow that you should love his son 
dearly? for then I ought to hate him, for my father 
hated his father; yet I do not hate Orlando." 

Frederick being enraged at the sight of sir Row- 
land de Boys' son, which reminded him of the many 
friends the banished duke had among the nobility, and 
having been for some time displeased with his niece, 
because the people praised her for her virtues, and 

Tales from Shaksfeare, 5 



66 TALES PROM SHAKSPEARE. 

pitied her for her good father's sake, his malice sud- 
denly broke out against her; and while Celia and Ro- 
salind were talking of Orlando, Frederick entered the 
room, and with looks full of anger ordered Eosalind 
instantly to leave the palace, and follow her father 
into banishment; telling Celia, who in vain pleaded for 
her, that he had only suffered Rosalind to stay upon 
her account. "I did not then," said Celia, "entreat 
you to let her stay, for I was too young at that time 
to value her; but now that I know her worth, and that 
we so long have slept together, rose at the same in- 
stant, learned, played, and eat together, I cannot live 
out of her company." Frederick replied, "She is too 
subtle for you; her smoothness, her very silence, and 
her patience speak to the people, and they pity her. 
You are a fool to plead for her, for you will seem 
more bright and virtuous when she is gone; therefore 
open not your lips in her favour, for the doom which 
I have passed upon her is irrevocable." 

When Celia found she could not prevail upon her 
father to let Rosalind remain with her, she generously 
resolved to accompany her; and leaving her father's 
palace that night, she went along with her friend to 
seek Rosalind's father, the banished duke, in the forest 
of Arden. 

Before they set out, Celia considered that it would 
be unsafe for two young ladies to travel in the rich 
clothes they then wore; she therefore proposed that 
they should disguise their rank by dressing themselves 
like country maids. Rosalind said it would be a still 
greater protection if one of them was to be dressed 
like a man; and so it was agreed on quickly between 
them, that as Rosalind was the tallest, she should wear 



A£ rofc like rr. 67 

the dress of a young countryman, and Celia should be 
habited like a country lass, and that they should say 
they were brother and sister, and Rosalind said she 
would be called Ganimed, and Celia chose the name 
of Aliena. 

In this disguise, and taking their money and jewels 
to defray their expenses, these fair princesses set out 
on their long travel; for the forest of Arden was a long 
way off, beyond the boundaries of the duke's dominions. 

The lady Eosalind (or Ganimed as she must now 
be called) with her manly garb seemed to have put on 
a manly courage. The faithful friendship Celia had 
shown in accompanying Rosalind so many weary miles, 
made the new brother, in recompense for this true love, 
exert a cheerful spirit, as if he were indeed Ganimed, 
the rustic and stout-hearted brother of the gentle village 
maiden, Aliena. 

When at last they came to the forest of Arden, 
they no longer found the convenient inns and good ac- 
commodations they had met with on the road; and 
being in want of food and rest, Ganimed, who had so 
merrily cheered his sister with pleasant speeches and 
happy remarks all the way, now owned to Aliena that 
he was so weary, he could find in his heart to disgrace 
his man's apparel, and cry like a woman; and Aliena 
declared she could go no further; and then again 
Ganimed tried to recollect that it was a man's duty to 
comfort and console a woman, as the weaker vessel; 
and to seem courageous to his new sister, he said, 
"Come, have a good heart, my sister Aliena; we are 
now at the end of our travel, in the forest of Arden." 
But feigned manliness and forced courage would no 
longer support them ; for though they were in the forest 

5* 



68 TALES FROM iSHAKSPEARE. 

of Arden, they knew not where to find the duke: and 
here the travel of these weary ladies might have come 
to a sad conclusion, for they might have lost them- 
selves, and perished for want of food; but providen- 
tially, as they were sitting on the grass, almost dying 
with fatigue and hopeless of any relief, a countryman 
chanced to pass that way, and Ganimed once more 
tried to speak with a manly boldness, saying, "Shep- 
herd, if love or gold can in this desert place procure 
us entertainment, I pray you bring us where we may 
rest ourselves; for this young maid, my sister, is much 
fatigued with travelling, and faints for want of food." 

The man replied, that he was only a servant to a 
shepherd, and that his master's house was just going 
to be sold, and therefore they would find but poor 
entertainment; but that if they would go with him, 
they should be welcome to what there was. They 
followed the man, the near prospect of relief giving 
them fresh strength; and bought the house and sheep 
of the shepherd, and took the man who conducted them 
to the shepherd's house to wait on them; and being by 
this means so fortunately provided with a neat cottage, 
and well supplied with provisions, they agreed to stay 
here till they could learn in what part of the forest the 
duke dwelt. 

When they were rested after the fatigue of their 
journey, they began to like their new way of life, and 
almost fancied themselves the shepherd and shep- 
herdess they feigned to be; yet sometimes Ganimed 
remembered he had once been the same lady Rosalind 
who had so dearly loved the brave Orlando, because 
he was the son of old sir Rowland, her father's friend; 
and though Ganimed thought that Orlando was many 



A 8 YOU LIKE IT. 69 

miles distant, even so many weary miles as they had 
travelled, yet it soon appeared that Orlando was also 
in the forest of Arden: and in this manner this strange 
event came to pass. 

Orlando was the youngest son of sir Rowland de 
Boys, who, when he died, left him (Orlando being then 
very young) to the care of his eldest brother Oliver, 
charging Oliver on his blessing to give his brother a 
good education, and provide for him as became the 
dignity of their ancient house. Oliver proved an un- 
worthy brother; and disregarding the commands of his 
dying father, he never put his brother to school, but 
kept him at home untaught and entirely neglected. 
But in his nature and in the noble qualities of his 
mind Orlando so much resembled his excellent father, 
that without any advantages of education he seemed 
like a youth who had been bred with the utmost care; 
and Oliver so envied the fine person and dignified 
manners of his untutored brother, that at last he wished 
to destroy him; and to effect this he set on people to 
persuade him to wrestle with the famous wrestler, who, 
as has been before related, had killed so many men. 
Now, it was this cruel brother's neglect of him which 
made Orlando say he wished to die, being so friend- 
less. 

When, contrary to the wicked hopes he had formed, 
his brother proved victorious, Oliver's envy and malice 
knew no bounds, and he swore he would burn the 
chamber where Orlando slept. He was overheard 
making this vow by one that had been an old and 
faithful servant to their father, and that loved Orlando 
because he resembled sir Rowland. This old man went 
out to meet him when he returned from the duke's 



70 TALES PROM SHAKSPEARE. 

palace, and when he saw Orlando, the peril his dear 
young master was in made him break out into these 
passionate exclamations: "0 my gentle master, my 
sweet master, you memory of old sir Rowland! why 
are you virtuous? why are you gentle, strong, and 
valiant? and why would you be so fond to overcome 
the famous wrestler? Your praise is come too swiftly 
home before you." Orlando, wondering what all this 
meant , asked him what was the matter. And then the 
old man told him how his wicked brother, envying the 
love all people bore him, and now hearing the fame 
he had gained by his victory in the duke's palace, in- 
tended to destroy him, by setting fire to his chamber 
that night; and in conclusion, advised him to escape 
the danger he was in by instant flight; and knowing 
Orlando had no money, Adam (for that was the good 
old man's name) had brought out with him his own 
little hoard, and he said, "I have five hundred crowns, 
the thrifty hire I saved under your father, and laid by 
to be provision for me when my old limbs should be- 
come unfit for service; take that, and he that doth the 
ravens feed be comfort to my age! Here is the gold; 
all this I give to you: let me be your servant; though 
I look old, I will do the service of a younger man in 
all your business and necessities." "0 good old man!" 
said Orlando, "how well appears in you the constant 
service of the old world! You are not for the fashion 
of these times. We will go along together, and before 
your youthful wages are spent, I shall light upon some 
means for both our maintenance." 

Together then this faithful servant and his loved 
master set out; and Orlando and Adam travelled on, 
uncertain what course to pursue, till they came to the 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 71 

forest of Arden, and there they found themselves in 
the same distress for want of food that Ganimed and 
Aliena had been. They wandered on, seeking some 
human habitation, till they were almost spent with 
hunger and fatigue. Adam at last said, "0 my dear 
master, I die for want of food, I can go no further!" 
He then laid himself down, thinking to make that place 
his grave, and bade his dear master farewell. Orlando, 
seeing him in this weak state, took his old servant up 
in his arms, and carried him under the shelter of some 
pleasant trees; and he said to him, "Cheerly, old Adam, 
rest your weary limbs here awhile, and do not talk of 
dying!" 

Orlando then searched about to find some food, and 
he happened to arrive at that part of the forest where 
the duke was; and he and his friends were just going 
to eat their dinner, this royal duke being seated on the 
grass, under no other canopy than the shady covert of 
some large trees. 

Orlando, whom hunger had made desperate, drew 
his sword, intending to take their meat by force, and 
said, "Forbear, and eat no more; I must have your 
food!" The duke asked him, if distress had made him 
so bold, or if he were a rude despiser of good manners? 
On this Orlando said he was dying with hunger; and 
then the duke told him he was welcome to sit down 
and eat with them. Orlando, hearing him speak so 
gently, put up his sword, and blushed with shame at 
the rude manner in which he had demanded their food. 
"Pardon me, I pray you," said he: "I thought that all 
things had been savage here, and therefore I put on 
the countenance of stern command; but whatever men 
you are, that in this desert, under the shade of melan- 



72 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

choly boughs, lose and neglect the creeping hours of 
time; if ever you have looked on better days; if ever 
you have been where bells have knolled to church; if 
you have ever sat at any good man's feast; if ever 
from your eyelids you have wiped a tear, and know 
what it is to pity or be pitied, may gentle speeches 
now move you to do me human courtesy!" The duke 
replied, "True it is that we are men (as you say) who 
have seen better days, and though we have now our 
habitation in this wild forest, we have lived in towns 
and cities, and have with holy bell been knolled to 
church, have sat at good men's feasts, and from our eyes 
have wiped the drops which sacred pity has engendered; 
therefore sit you down, and take of our refreshment as 
much as will minister to your wants." "There is an 
old poor man," answered Orlando, "who has limped 
after me many a weary step in pure love, oppressed at 
once with two sad infirmities, age and hunger; till he 
be satisfied, I must not touch a bit." "Go, find him 
out, and bring him hither," said the duke; "we will 
forbear to eat till you return." Then Orlando went 
like a doe to find its fawn and give it food; and pre- 
sently returned, bringing Adam in his arms; and the 
duke said, "Set down your venerable burthen; you are 
both welcome:" and they fed the old man, and cheered 
his heart, and he revived, and recovered his health and 
strength again. 

The duke inquired who Orlando was; and when 
he found that he was the son of his old friend, sir 
Rowland de Boys, he took him under his protection, and 
Orlando and his old servant lived with the duke in the 
forest. 

Orlando arrived in the forest not many days after 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 73 

Ganinied and Aliena came there, and (as has been be- 
fore related) bought the shepherd's cottage. 

Ganimed and Aliena were strangely surprised to 
find the name of Rosalind carved on the trees, and love- 
sonnets, fastened to them, all addressed to Rosalind; 
and while they were wondering how this could be, they 
met Orlando, and they perceived the chain which Ro- 
salind had given him about his neck. 

Orlando little thought that Ganimed was the fair 
princess Rosalind, who, by her noble condescension and 
favour, had so won his heart that he passed his whole 
time in carving her name upon the trees, and writing 
sonnets in praise of her beauty: but being much pleased 
with the graceful air of this pretty shepherd-youth, he 
entered into conversation with him, and he thought he 
saw a likeness in Ganimed to his beloved Rosalind, but 
that he had none of the dignified deportment of that 
noble lady, for Gammed assumed the forward manners 
often seen in youths when they are between boys and 
men, and with much archness and humour talked to 
Orlando of a certain lover, "who," said he, "haunts 
our forest, and spoils our young trees with carving Ro- 
salind upon their barks; and he hangs odes upon haw- 
thorns, and elegies on brambles, all praising this same 
Rosalind. If I could find this lover, I would give him 
some good counsel that would soon cure him of his love." 

Orlando confessed that he was the fond lover of 
whom he spoke, and asked Ganimed to give him the 
good counsel he talked of. The remedy Ganimed pro- 
posed, and the counsel he gave him, was that Orlando 
should come every day to the cottage where he and 
his sister Aliena dwelt: "And then," said Ganimed, 
U I will feign myself to be Rosalind, and you shall feign 



74 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

to court me in the same manner as you would do if I 
was Eosalind, and then I will imitate the fantastic ways 
of whimsical ladies to their lovers, till I make you 
ashamed of your love; and this is the way I propose 
to cure you." Orlando had no great faith in the remedy, 
yet he agreed to come every day to Ganimed's cottage, 
and feign a playful courtship; and every day Orlando 
visited Ganimed and Aliena, and Orlando called the 
shepherd Ganimed his Eosalind, and every day talked 
over all the fine words and flattering compliments which 
young men delight to use when they court their mistresses. 
It does not appear, however, that Ganimed made any 
progress in curing Orlando of his love for Eosalind. 

Though Orlando thought all this was but a sportive 
play (not dreaming that Ganimed was his very Eosa- 
lind), yet the opportunity it gave him of saying all the 
fond things he had in his heart, pleased his fancy 
almost as well as it did Ganimed's, who enjoyed the 
secret jest in knowing these fine love-speeches were all 
addressed to the right person. 

In this manner many days passed pleasantly on 
with these young people; and the good-natured Aliena, 
seeing it made Ganimed happy, let him have his own 
way, and was diverted at the mock-courtship, and did 
not care to remind Ganimed that the lady Eosalind had 
not yet made herself known to the duke her father, 
whose place of resort in the forest they had learnt from 
Orlando. Ganimed met the duke one day, and had 
some talk with him, and the duke asked of what par- 
entage he came. Ganimed answered, that he came of 
as good parentage as he did; which made the duke 
smile, for he did not suspect the pretty shepherd-boy 
came of royal lineage. Then seeing the duke look well 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 75 

and happy, Ganinied was content to put off all further 
explanation for a few days longer. 

One morning, as Orlando was going to visit Ga- 
uimed, he saw a man lying asleep on the ground, and 
a large green snake had twisted itself about his neck. 
The snake, seeing Orlando approach, glided away 
among the bushes. Orlando went nearer, and then he 
discovered a lioness lie couching, with her head on the 
ground, with a cat-like watch, waiting till the sleeping- 
man awaked (for it is said that lions will prey on no- 
thing that is dead or sleeping). It seemed as if Or- 
lando was sent by Providence to free the man from 
the danger of the snake and lioness; but when Orlando 
looked in the man's face, he perceived that the sleeper, 
who was exposed to this double peril, was his own 
brother Oliver, who had so cruelly used him, and had 
threatened to destroy him by fire; and he was almost 
tempted to leave fiim a prey to the hungry lioness; 
but brotherly affection and the gentleness of his nature 
soon overcame his first anger against his brother; and 
he drew his sword, and attacked the lioness, and slew 
her, and thus preserved his brother's life both from 
the venomous snake and from the furious lioness: but 
before Orlando could conquer the lioness, she had torn 
one of his arms with her sharp claws. 

While Orlando was engaged with the lioness, 
Oliver awaked, and perceiving that his brother Or- 
lando, whom he had so cruelly treated, was saving him 
from the fury of a wild beast at the risk of his own 
life, shame and remorse at once seized him, and he 
repented of his unworthy conduct, and besought with 
many tears his brother's pardon for the injuries he had 
done him. Orlando rejoiced to see him so penitent, 



76 TALES FROM SUAK8PEARE. 

and readily forgave him: they embraced each other, 
and from that hour Oliver loved Orlando with a true 
brotherly affection, though he had come to the forest 
bent on his destruction. 

The wound in Orlando's arm having bled very 
much, he found himself too weak to go to visit Ga- 
mmed, and therefore he desired his brother to go and 
tell Ganimed, "whom," said Orlando, "I in sport do 
call my Eosalind," the accident which had befallen 
him. 

Thither then Oliver went, and told to Ganimed 
and Aliena how Orlando had saved his life: and when 
he had finished the story of Orlando's bravery, and his 
own providential escape, he owned to them that he 
was Orlando's brother, who had so cruelly used him; 
and then he told them of their reconciliation. 

The sincere sorrow that Oliver expressed for his 
offences made such a lively impression on the kind 
heart of Aliena, that she instantly fell in love with 
him; and Oliver observing how much she pitied the 
distress he told her he felt for his fault, he as suddenly 
fell in love with her. But while love was thus stealing 
into the hearts of Aliena and Oliver, he was no less 
busy with Ganimed, who hearing of the danger Or- 
lando had been in, and that he was wounded by the 
lioness, fainted; and when he recovered, he pretended 
that he had counterfeited the swoon in the imaginary 
character of Eosalind, and Ganimed said to Oliver, 
"Tell your brother Orlando how well I counterfeited a 
swoon." But Oliver saw by the paleness of his com- 
plexion that he did really faint, and much wondering 
at the weakness of the young man, he said, "Well, if 
you did counterfeit, take a good heart, and counterfeit 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 77 

to be a man." "So I do," replied Ganimed, truly, 
"but I should have been a woman by right." 

Oliver made this visit a very long one, and when 
at last he returned back to his brother, he had much 
news to tell him; for besides the account of Ganimed's 
fainting at the hearing that Orlando was wounded, 
Oliver told him how he had fallen in love with the 
fair shepherdess Aliena, and that she had lent a 
favourable ear to his suit, even in this their first inter- 
view, and he talked to his brother, as of a thing al- 
most settled, that he should marry Aliena, saying, that 
he so well loved her, that he would live here as a shepherd, 
and settle his estate and house at home upon Orlando. 

"You have my consent," said Orlando. "Let your 
wedding be to-morrow, and I will invite the duke and 
his friends. Go and persuade your shepherdess to 
agree to this: she is now alone; for look, here comes 
her brother." Oliver went to Aliena; and Ganimed, 
whom Orlando had perceived approaching, came to in- 
quire after the health of his wounded friend. 

When Orlando and Ganimed began to talk over 
the sudden love which had taken place between Oliver 
and Aliena, Orlando said he had advised his brother 
to persuade his fair shepherdess to be married on the 
morrow, and then he added how much he could wish 
to be married on the same day to his Rosalind. 

Ganimed, who well approved of this arrangement, 
said that if Orlando really loved Rosalind as well as 
he professed to do, he should have his wish; for on 
the morrow he would engage to make Rosalind appear 
in her own person, and also that Rosalind should be 
willing to marry Orlando. 

This seemingly wonderful event, which, as Ganimed 



78 TALES PROM SHAKSPEARE. 

was the lady Rosalind, lie could so easily perform, lie 
pretended he would bring to pass by the aid of magic, 
which he said he had learnt of an uncle who was a 
famous magician. 

The fond lover Orlando, half believing and half 
doubting what he heard, asked Ganimed if he spoke 
in sober meaning. "By my life I do," said Ganimed; 
"therefore put on your best clothes, and bid the duke 
and your friends to your wedding; for if you desire to 
be married to-morrow to Rosalind, she shall be here." 

The next morning, Oliver having obtained the con- 
sent of Aliena, they came into the presence of the 
duke, and with them also came Orlando. 

They being all assembled to celebrate this double mar- 
riage, and as yet only one of the brides appearing, there 
was much of wondering and conjecture, but they mostly 
thought that Ganimed was making a jest of Orlando. 

The duke, hearing that it was his own daughter 
that was to be brought in this strange way, asked Or- 
lando if he believed the shepherd-boy could really do 
what he had promised; and while Orlando was answer- 
ing that he knew not what to think, Ganimed entered, 
and asked the duke, if he brought his daughter, 
whether he would consent to her marriage with Or- 
lando. "That I would," said the duke, "if I had king- 
doms to give with her." Ganimed then said to 
Orlando, "And you say you will marry her if I bring 
her here." "That I would," said Orlando, "if I were 
king of many kingdoms." 

Ganimed and Aliena then went out together, and 
Ganimed throwing off his male attire, and being once 
more dressed in woman's apparel, quickly became Ro- 
salind without the power of magic; and Aliena 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 79 

changing her country garb for her own rich clothes, was 
with as little trouble transformed into the lady Celia. 

While they were gone, the duke said to Orlando, 
that he thought the shepherd Ganimed very like his 
daughter Eosalind; and Orlando said, he also had ob- 
served the resemblance. 

They had no time to wonder how all this would 
end, for Eosalind and Celia in their own clothes en- 
tered; and no longer pretending that it was by the 
power of magic that she came there, Eosalind threw 
herself on her knees before her father, and begged his 
blessing. It seemed so wonderful to all present that 
she should so suddenly appear, that it might well have 
passed for magic; but Eosalind would no longer trifle 
with her father, and told him the story of her banish- 
ment, and of her dwelling in the forest as a shepherd- 
boy, her cousin Celia passing as her sister. 

The duke ratified the consent he had already given 
to the marriage; and Orlando and Eosalind, Oliver and 
Celia, were married at the same time. And though 
their wedding could not be celebrated in this wild 
forest with any of the parade or splendour usual on 
such occasions, yet a happier wedding-day was never 
passed: and while they were eating their venison under 
the cool shade of the pleasant trees, as if nothing 
should be wanting to complete the felicity of this good 
duke and the true lovers, an unexpected messenger 
arrived to tell the duke the joyful news, that his 
dukedom was restored to him. 

The usurper, enraged at the flight of his daughter 
Celia, and hearing that every day men of great worth 
resorted to the forest of Arden to join the lawful duke 
in his exile, much envying that his brother should be 



80 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

so highly respected in his adversity, put himself at the 
head of a large force, and advanced towards the forest, 
intending to seize his brother, and put him with all 
his faithful followers to the sword; but, by a wonder- 
ful interposition of Providence, this bad brother was 
converted from his evil intention; for just as he entered 
the skirts of the wild forest, he was met by an old 
religious man, a hermit, with whom he had much talk, 
and who in the end completely turned his heart from 
his wicked design. Thenceforward he became a true 
penitent, and resolved, relinquishing his unjust domin- 
ion, to spend the remainder of his days in a religious 
house. The first act of his newly conceived penitence 
was to send a messenger to his brother (as has been 
related) to offer to restore to him his dukedom, which he 
had usurped so long, and with it the lands and revenues 
of his friends, the faithful followers of his adversity. 

This joyful news, as unexpected as it was welcome, 
came opportunely to heighten the festivity and re- 
joicings at the wedding of the princesses. Celia com- 
plimented her cousin on this good fortune which had 
happened to the duke, Rosalind's father, and wished 
joy very sincerely, though she herself was no longer 
heir to the dukedom, but by this restoration which her 
father had made, Rosalind was now the heir: so com- 
pletely was the love of these two cousins unmixed 
with anything of jealousy or of envy. 

The duke had now an opportunity of rewarding 
those true friends who had stayed with him in his 
banishment; and these worthy followers, though they 
had patiently shared his adverse fortune, were very 
well pleased to return in peace and prosperity to the 
palace of their lawful duke. 



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 81 



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 



There lived in the city of Verona two voting gen- 
tlemen, whose names were Valentine and Protheus, 
between whom a firm and uninterrupted friendship had 
long subsisted. They pursued their studies together, 
and their hours of leisure were always passed in each 
other's company, except when Protheus visited a lady 
he was in love with; and these visits to his mistress, 
and this passion of Protheus for the fair Julia, were 
the only topics on which these two friends disagreed; 
for Valentine, not being himself a lover, was some- 
times a little weary of hearing his friend for ever 
talking of his Julia, and then he would laugh at 
Protheus, and in pleasant terms ridicule the passion of 
love, and declare that no such idle fancies should ever 
enter his head, greatly preferring (as he said) the free 
and happy life he led, to the anxious hopes and fears 
of the lover Protheus. 

One morning Valentine came to Protheus to tell 
him that they must for a time be separated; for that 
he was going to Milan. Protheus, unwilling to part 
with his friend, used many arguments to prevail upon 
Valentine not to leave him; but Valentine said, "Cease 
to persuade me, my loving Protheus. I will not, like 
a sluggard, wear out my youth in idleness at home. 
Home-keeping youths have ever homely wits. If your 

Tales from Shakspeare. b 



82 TALES FROM SBAKSPEARE. 

affection were not chained to the sweet glances of your 
honoured Julia, I would entreat you to accompany 
me, to see the wonders of the world abroad; but since 
you are a lover, love on still, and may your love be 
prosperous!" 

They parted with mutual expressions of unalterable 
friendship. "Sweet Valentine, adieu!" said Protheus; 
"think on me, when you see some rare object worthy 
of notice in your travels, and wish me partaker of 
your happiness." 

Valentine began his journey that same day towards 
Milan; and when his friend had left him, Protheus sat 
down to write a letter to Julia, which he gave to her 
maid Lucetta to deliver to her mistress. 

Julia loved Protheus as well as he did her, but 
she was a lady of a noble spirit, and she thought it 
did not become her maiden dignity too easily to be 
won; therefore she affected to be insensible of his 
passion, and gave him much uneasiness in the prosecu- 
tion of his suit. 

And when Lucetta offered the letter to Julia, she 
would not receive it, and chid her maid for taking 
letters from Protheus, and ordered her to leave the 
room. But she so much wished to see what was written 
in the letter, that she soon called in her maid again; 
and when Lucetta returned, she said, "What o'clock 
is it?" Lucetta, who knew her mistress more desired 
to see the letter than to know the time of day, without 
answering her question, again offered the rejected 
letter. Julia, angry that her maid should thus take 
the liberty of seeming to know what she really wanted, 
tore the letter in pieces, and threw it on the floor, 
ordering her maid once more out of the room. As 



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 83 

Lucetta was retiring, she stopped to pick up the frag- 
ments of the torn letter; but Julia, who meant not so 
to part with them, said, in pretended anger, "Go, get 
you gone, and let the papers lie; you would be finger- 
ing them to anger me." 

Julia then began to piece together as well as she 
could the torn fragments. She first made out these 
words, "Love-wounded Protheus;" and lamenting over 
these and such like loving words, which she made out 
though they were all torn asunder, or, she said, -wounded 
(the expression "Love-wounded Protheus" giving her 
that idea), she talked to these kind words, telling them 
she would lodge them in her bosom as in a bed, till 
their wounds were healed, and that she would kiss 
each several piece, to make amends. 

In this manner she went on talking with a pretty 
lady-like childishness, till finding herself unable to 
make out the whole, and vexed at her own ingratitude 
in destroying such sweet and loving words, as she 
called them, she wrote a much kinder letter to Protheus 
than she had ever done before. 

Protheus was greatly delighted at receiving this 
favourable answer to his letter; and while he was 
reading it, he exclaimed, "Sweet love, sweet lines, 
sweet life!" In the midst of his raptures he was inter- 
rupted by his father. "How now!" said the old gen- 
tleman; "what letter are you reading there?" 

"My lord," replied Protheus, "it is a letter from 
my friend Valentine, at Milan." 

"Lend me the letter," said his father: "let me see 
what news." 

"There are no news, my lord," said Protheus, 
greatly alarmed, "but that he writes how well beloved 

6* 



84 TALES PROM SHAKSPBARE. 

he is of the duke of Milan, who daily graces him with 
favours; and how he wishes me with him, the partner 
of his fortune." 

"And how stand you affected to this wish?" asked 
the father. 

"As one relying on your lordship's will, and not 
depending on his friendly wish," said Protheus. 

Now it had happened that Protheus' father had just 
been talking with a friend on this very subject: his 
friend had said, he wondered his lordship suffered his 
son to spend his youth at home, while most men were 
sending their sons to seek preferment abroad; "some," 
said he, "to the wars, to try their fortunes there, and 
some to discover islands far away, and some to study 
in foreign universities; and there is his companion 
Valentine, he is gone to the duke of Milan's court. 
Tour son is fit for any of these things, and it will be 
a great disadvantage to him in his riper age not to 
have travelled in his youth." 

Protheus' father thought the advice of his friend 
was very good, and upon Protheus telling him that 
Valentine "wished him with him, the partner of his 
fortune," he at once determined to send his son to 
Milan; and without giving Protheus any reason for this 
sudden resolution, it being the usual habit of the posi- 
tive old gentleman to command his son, not reason 
with him, he said, "My will is the same as Valentine's 
wish;" and seeing his son look astonished, he added, 
"Look not amazed, that I so suddenly resolve you shall 
spend some time in the duke of Milan's court; for what 
I will I will, and there is an end. To-morrow be in 
readiness to go. Make no excuses; for I am peremptory." 

Protheus knew it was of no use to make objections 



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 86 

to his father, who never suffered him to dispute his 
will; and he blamed himself for telling his father an 
untruth about Julia's letter, which had brought upon 
him the sad necessity of leaving her. 

Now that Julia found she was going to lose Pro- 
theus for so long a time, she no longer pretended in- 
difference ; and they bade each other a mournful farewell, 
with many vows of love and constancy. Protheus and 
Julia exchanged rings, which they both promised to 
keep for ever in remembrance of each other; and thus, 
taking a sorrowful leave, Protheus set out on his jour- 
ney to Milan, the abode of his friend Valentine. 

Vatentine was in reality what Protheus had feigned 
to his father, in high favour with the duke of Milan; 
and another event had happened to him, of which 
Protheus did not even dream, for Valentine had given 
up the freedom of which he used so much to boast, 
and was become as passionate a lover as Protheus. 

She who had wrought this wondrous change in 
Valentine was the lady Silvia, daughter of the duke 
of Milan, and she also loved him; but they concealed 
their love from the duke, because although he showed 
much kindness for Valentine, and invited him every 
day to his palace, yet he designed to marry his daughter 
to a young courtier whose name was Thurio. Silvia 
despised this Thurio, for he had none of the fine sense 
and excellent qualities of Valentine. 

These two rivals, Thurio and Valentine, were one 
day on a visit to Silvia, and Valentine was entertaining 
Silvia with turning everything Thurio said into ridicule, 
when the duke himself entered the room, and told 
Valentine the welcome news of his friend Protheus' 
arrival. Valentine said, "If I had wished a thing, it 



Ob TALES PROM SHAKSPEARE. 

would have been to have seen him here!" And then 
he highly praised Protheus to the duke, saying, "My 
lord, though I have been a truant of my time, yet 
hath my friend made use and fair advantage of his 
days, and is complete in person and in mind, in all 
good grace to grace a gentleman." 

"Welcome him then according to his worth," said 
the duke. "Silvia, I speak to you, and you, SirThurio; 
for Valentine, I need not bid him do so." They were 
here interrupted by the entrance of Protheus, and Va- 
lentine introduced him to Silvia, saying, "Sweet lady, 
entertain him to be my fellow-servant to your ladyship." 

When Valentine and Protheus had ended their visit, 
and were alone together, Valentine said, "Now tell me 
how all does from whence you came? How does your 
lady, and how thrives your love?" Protheus replied, 
"My tales of love used to weary you. I know you joy 
not in a love discourse." 

"Ay, Protheus," returned Valentine, "but that life 
is altered now. I ha\e done penance for condemning 
love. For in revenge of my contempt of love, love has 
chased sleep from my enthralled eyes. gentle Pro- 
theus, Love is a mighty lord, and hath so humbled 
me, that I confess there is no woe like his correction, 
nor no such joy on earth as in his service. I now like 
no discourse except it be of love. Now I can break my 
fast, dine, sup, and sleep, upon the very name of love." 

This acknowledgment of the change which love 
had made in the disposition of Valentine was a great 
triumph to his friend Protheus. But "friend" Protheus 
must be called no longer, for the same all-powerful 
deity Love, of whom they were speaking (yea, even 
while they were talking of the change he had made in 



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 87 

Valentine), was working in the heart of Prothens; and 
he, who had till this time been a pattern of true love 
and perfect friendship, was now, in one short inter- 
view with Silvia, become a false friend and a faithless 
lover; for at the first sight of Silvia all his love for 
Julia vanished away like a dream, nor did his long 
friendship for Valentine deter him from endeavouring 
to supplant him in her affections; and although, as it 
will always be, when people of dispositions naturally 
good become unjust, he had many scruples before he 
determined to forsake Julia, and become the rival of 
Valentine; yet he at length overcame his sense of duty, 
and yielded himself up, almost without remorse, to his 
new unhappy passion. 

Valentine imparted to him in confidence the whole 
history of his love, and how carefully they had con- 
cealed it from the duke her father, and told him, that, 
despairing of ever being able to obtain his consent, he 
had prevailed upon Silvia to leave her father's palace 
that night, and go with him to Mantua; then he showed 
Prothens a ladder of ropes, by help of which he meant 
to assist Silvia to get out of one of the windows of the 
palace after it was dark. 

Upon hearing this faithful recital of his friend's 
dearest secrets, it is hardly possible to be believed, but 
so it was, that Protheus resolved to go to the duke, 
and disclose the whole to him. 

This false friend began his tale with many artful 
speeches to the duke, such as that by the laws of friend- 
ship he ought to conceal what he was going to reveal, 
but that the gracious favour the duke had shown him, 
and the duty he owed his grace, urged him to tell that 
which else no worldly good should draw from him. He 



88 TALES PROM SHAKSPEARE. 

then told all he had heard from Valentine, not omitting 
the ladder of ropes, and the manner in which Valentine 
meant to conceal them under a long cloak. 

The duke thought Protheus quite a miracle of in- 
tegrity, in that he preferred telling his friend's inten- 
tion rather than he would conceal an unjust action, 
highly commended him, and promised him not to let Va- 
lentine know from whom he had learnt this intelligence, 
but by some artifice to make Valentine betray the secret 
himself. For this purpose the duke awaited the coming 
of Valentine in the evening, whom he soon saw hurry- 
ing towards the palace, and he perceived somewhat was 
wrapped within his cloak, which he concluded was the 
rope-ladder. 

The duke upon this stopped him, saying, "Whither 
away so fast, Valentine?" — "May it please your 
grace," said Valentine, "there is a messenger that stays 
to bear my letters to my friends, and I am going to 
deliver them." Now this falsehood of Valentine's had 
no better success in the event than the untruth Pro- 
theus told his father. 

"Be they of much import?" said the duke. 

"No more, my lord," said Valentine, "than to tell 
my father I am well and happy at your grace's court." 

"Nay then," said the duke, "no matter; stay with 
me a while. I wish your counsel about some affairs 
that concern me nearly." He then told Valentine an 
artful story, as a prelude to draw his secret from him, 
saying, that Valentine knew he wished to match his 
daughter with Thurio, but that she was stubborn and 
disobedient to his commands, "neither regarding," said 
he, "that she is my child, nor fearing me as if I were 
her father. And I may say to thee, this pride of hers 



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 8 'J 

has drawn my love from her. I had thought my age 
should have been cherished by her childlike duty. I 
now am resolved to take a wife, and turn her out to who- 
soever will take her in. Let her beauty be her wedding 
dower, for me and my possessions she esteems not." 

Valentine, wondering where all this would end, 
made answer, "And what would your grace have me 
to do in all this?" 

"Why," said the duke, "the lady I would wish to 
marry is nice and coy, and does not much esteem my 
aged eloquence. Besides, the fashion of courtship is 
much changed since I was young: now I would willingly 
have you to be my tutor to instruct me how I am to woo." 

Valentine gave him a general idea of the modes 
of courtship then practised by young men, when they 
wished to win a fair lady's love, such as presents, fre- 
quent visits, and the like. 

The duke replied to this, that the lady did refuse 
a present which he sent her, and that she was so strictly 
kept by her father, that no man might have access to 
her by day. 

"Why then," said Valentine, "you must visit her 
by night." 

"But at night," said the artful duke, who was now 
coming to the drift of his discourse, "her doors are 
fast locked." 

Valentine then unfortunately proposed, that the 
duke should get into the lady's chamber at night by 
means of a ladder of ropes, saying, he would procure 
him one fitting for that purpose; and in conclusion ad- 
vised him to conceal this ladder of ropes under such a 
cloak as that which he now wore. "Lend me your 
cloak," said the duke, who had feigned this long story 



90 TALUS .FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

on purpose to have a pretence to get off the cloak; so 
upon saying these words, he caught hold of Valentine's 
cloak, and throwing it back, he discovered not only 
the ladder of ropes, but also a letter of Silvia's, which 
he instantly opened, and read; and this letter contained 
a full account of their intended elopement. The duke, 
after upbraiding Valentine for his ingratitude in thus 
returning the favour he had shown him, by endeavour- 
ing to steal away his daughter, banished him from the 
court and city of Milan for ever; and Valentine was 
forced to depart that night, without even seeing Silvia. 

While Protheus at Milan was thus injuring Valen- 
tine, Julia at Verona was regretting the absence of 
Protheus; and her regard for him at last so far over- 
came her sense of propriety, that she resolved to leave 
Verona, and seek her lover at Milan; and to secure 
herself from danger on the road, she dressed her maiden 
Lucetta and herself in men's clothes, and they set out in 
this disguise, and arrived at Milan soon after Valentine was 
banished from that city through the treachery of Protheus. 

Julia entered Milan about noon, and she took up 
her abode at an inn; and her thoughts being all on her 
dear Protheus, she entered into conversation with the 
innkeeper, or host, as he was called, thinking by that 
means to learn some news of Protheus. 

The host was greatly pleased that this handsome 
young gentleman (as he took her to be), who from his 
appearance, he concluded was of high rank, spoke so 
familiarly to him; and being a good-natured man, he 
was sorry to see him look so melancholy; and to amuse 
his young guest, he offered to take him to hear some 
fine music, with which, he said, a gentleman that 
evening was going to serenade his mistress. 



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 91 

The reason Julia looked so very melancholy was, 
that she did not well know whatProtheus would think 
of the imprudent step she had taken; for she knew he 
had loved her for her noble maiden pride and dignity 
of character, and she feared she should lower herself 
in his esteem: and this it was that made her wear a 
sad and thoughtful countenance. 

She gladly accepted the offer of the host to go with 
him, and hear the music; for she secretly hoped she 
might meet Protheus by the way. 

But when she came to the palace whither the host 
conducted her, a very different effect was produced to 
what the kind host intended; for there, to her heart's 
sorrow, she beheld her lover, the inconstant Protheus, 
serenading the lady Silvia with music, and addressing- 
discourse of love and admiration to her. And Julia 
overheard Silvia from a window talk with Protheus, 
and reproach him for forsaking his own true lady, and 
for his ingratitude to his friend Valentine; and then 
Silvia left the window, not choosing to listen to his 
music and his fine speeches ; for she was a faithful lady 
to her banished Valentine, and abhorred the ungenerous 
conduct of his false friend Protheus. 

Though Julia was in despair at what she had just 
witnessed, yet did she still love the truant Protheus; 
and hearing that he had lately parted with a servant, 
she contrived with the assistance of her host, the friendly 
innkeeper, to hire herself to Protheus as a page; and 
Protheus knew not she was Julia, and he sent her with 
letters and presents to her rival Silvia, and he even 
sent by her the very ring she gave him as a parting 
gift at Verona. 

When she went to that lady with the ring, she was 



92 TAI.ES FROM SHAKSPEARH. 

most glad so find that Silvia utterly rejected the suit 
of Protheus; and Julia, or the page Sebastian as she 
was called, entered into conversation with Silvia about 
Protheus' first love, the forsaken lady Julia. She 
putting in (as any one may say) a good word for her- 
self, said she knew Julia; as well she might, being 
herself the Julia of whom she spoke; telling how fondly 
Julia loved her master Protheus, and how his unkind 
neglect would grieve her: and then she with a pretty 
equivocation went on: "Julia is about my height, and 
of my complexion, the colour of her eyes and hair the 
same as mine:" and indeed Julia looked a most beauti- 
ful youth in her boy's attire. Silvia was moved to pity 
this lovely lady, who was so sadly forsaken by the man 
she. loved; and when Julia offered the ring which Pro- 
theus had sent, refused it, saying, "The more shame 
for him that he sends me that ring; I will not take it; 
for I have often heard him say his Julia gave it to 
him. I love thee, gentle youth, for pitying her, poor 
lady! Here is a purse; I give it you for Julia's sake." 
These comfortable words coming from her kind rival's 
tongue cheered the drooping heart of the disguised lady. 

But to return to the banished Valentine; who scarce 
knew which way to bend his course, being unwilling 
to return home to his father a disgraced and banished 
man: as he was wandering over a lonely forest, not 
far distant from Milan, where he had left his heart's 
dear treasure, the lady Silvia, he was set upon by 
robbers, who demanded his money. 

Valentine told them, that he was a man crossed by 
adversity, that he was going into banishment, and that he 
had no money, the clothes he had on being all his riches. 

The robbers, hearing that he was a distressed man, 



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 93 

and being struck with his noble air and manly be- 
haviour, told him if he would live with them, and be 
their chief, or captain, they would put themselves under 
his command; but that if he refused to accept their 
offer, they would kill him. 

Valentine, who cared little what became of himself, 
said, he would consent to live with them and be their 
captain, provided they did no outrage on women or 
poor passengers. 

Thus the noble Valentine became, like Robin Hood, 
of whom we read in ballads, a captain of robbers and 
outlawed banditti; and in this situation he was found 
by Silvia, and in this manner it came to pass. 

Silvia, to avoid a marriage with Thurio, whom her 
father insisted upon her no longer refusing, came at 
last to the resolution of following Valentine to Mantua, 
at which place she had heard her lover had taken re- 
fuge; but in this account she was misinformed, for he 
still lived in the forest among the robbers, bearing the 
name of their captain, but taking no part in their de- 
predations, and using the authority which they had 
imposed upon him in no other way than to compel 
them to show compassion to the travellers they robbed. 

Silvia contrived to effect her escape from her fa- 
ther's palace in company with a worthy old gentleman, 
whose name was ^glamour, whom she took along with 
her for protection on the road. She had to pass through 
the forest where Valentine and the banditti dwelt; and 
one of these robbers seized on Silvia, and would also 
have taken Eglamour, but he escaped. 

The robber who had taken Silvia, seeing the terror 
she was in, bid her not be alarmed, for that he was 
only going to carry her to a cave where his captain 



94 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

lived, and that she need not be afraid, for their cap- 
tain had an honourable mind, and always showed 
humanity to women. Silvia found little comfort in 
hearing she was going to be carried as a prisoner be- 
fore the captain of a lawless banditti. "0 Valentine," 
she cried, "this I endure for thee!" 

But as the robber was conveying her to the cave 
of his captain, he was stopped by Protheus, who, still 
attended by Julia in the disguise of a page, having 
heard of the flight of Silvia, had traced her steps to 
this forest. Protheus now rescued her from the hands 
of the robber; but scarce had she time to thank him 
for the service he had done her, before he began to 
distress her afresh with his love suit; and while he was 
rudely pressing her to consent to marry him, and his 
page (the forlorn Julia) was standing beside him in 
great anxiety of mind, fearing lest the great service 
which Protheus had just done to Silvia should win her 
to show him some favour, they were all strangely sur- 
prised with the sudden appearance of Valentine, who, 
having heard his robbers had taken a lady prisoner, 
came to console and relieve her. 

Protheus was courting Silvia, and he was so much 
ashamed of being caught by his friend, that he was all 
at once seized with penitence and remorse; and he ex- 
pressed such a lively sorrow for the injuries he had 
done to Valentine, that Valentine, whose nature was 
noble and generous, even to a romantic degree, not 
only forgave and restored him to his former place in 
his friendship, but in a sudden flight of heroism he 
said, "I freely do forgive you; and all the interest I 
have in Silvia, I give it up to you." Julia, who was 
standing beside her master as a page, hearing this 



THE TWO GENTLEMEN OP VERONA. 95 

strange offer, and fearing Protheus would not be able 
with this new-found virtue to refuse Silvia, fainted, 
and they were all employed in recovering her: else 
would Silvia have been offended at being thus made 
over to Protheus, though she could scarcely think that 
Valentine would long persevere in this overstrained 
and too generous act of friendship. When Julia re- 
covered from the fainting fit, she said, "I had forgot, 
my master ordered me to deliver this ring to Silvia." 
Protheus, looking upon the ring, saw that it was the 
one he gave to Julia, in return for that which he re- 
ceived from her, and which he had sent by the sup- 
posed page to Silvia. "How is this?" said he, "this 
is Julia's ring: how came you by it, boy?" Julia 
answered, "Julia herself did give it me, and Julia 
herself hath brought it hither." 

Protheus, now looking earnestly upon her, plainly 
perceived that the -page Sebastian was no other than 
the lady Julia herself: and the proof she had given of 
her constancy and true love so wrought in him, that 
his love for her returned into his heart, and he took 
again his own dear lady, and joyfully resigned all pre- 
tensions to the lady Silvia to Valentine, who had so 
well deserved her. 

Protheus and Valentine were expressing their hap- 
piness in their reconciliation, and in the love of their 
faithful ladies when they were surprised with the sight 
of the duke of Milan and Thurio, who came there in 
pursuit of Silvia. 

Thurio first approached, and attempted to seize 
Silvia, saying, "Silvia is mine." Upon this Valentine 
said to him in a very spirited manner, "Thurio, keep 
back: if once again you say that Silvia is yours, you 



96 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

shaM embrace your death. Here she stands, take but 
possession of her with a tonch! I dare you but to 
breathe upon my love." Hearing this threat, Thurio, 
who was a great coward, drew back, and said he cared 
not for her, and that none but a fool would fight for a 
girl who loved him not. 

The duke, who was a very brave man himself, said 
now in great anger, "The more base and degenerate 
in you to take such means for her as you have done, 
and leave her on such slight conditions." Then, turn- 
ing to Valentine, he said, "I do applaud your spirit, 
Valentine, and think you worthy of an empress' love. 
You shall have Silvia, for you have well deserved her." 
Valentine then with great humility kissed the duke's 
hand, and accepted the noble present which he had 
made him of his daughter with becoming thankfulness: 
taking occasion of this joyful minute to entreat the 
good-humoured duke to pardon the thieves with whom 
he had associated in the forest, assuring him, that when 
reformed and restored to society, there would be found 
among them many good, and fit for great employment; 
for the most of them had been banished, like Valen- 
tine, for state offences, rather than for any black crimes 
they had been guilty of. To this the ready duke con- 
sented: and now nothing remained but that Protheus, 
the false friend, was ordained, by way of penance for 
his love-prompted faults, to be present at the recital of 
the whole story of his loves and falsehoods before the 
duke; and the shame of the recital to his awakened 
conscience was judged sufficient punishment: which 
being done, the lovers, all four, returned back to Mi- 
lan, and their nuptials were solemnized in the presence 
of the duke, with high triumphs and feasting. 



THE MERCHANT OP VENICE. 97 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 



Shylock, the Jew, lived at Venice: he was an 
usurer, who had amassed an immense fortune by lend- 
ing money at great interest to Christian merchants. 
Shylock, being a hard-hearted man, exacted the pay- 
ment of the money he lent with such severity, that he 
was much disliked by all good men, and particularly 
byAnthonio, a young merchant of Venice; and Shylock 
as much hated Anthonio, because he used to lend 
money to people in distress, and would never take any 
interest for the money he lent; therefore there was 
great enmity between this covetous Jew and the gener- 
ous merchant Anthonio. Whenever Anthonio met 
Shylock on the Rialto (or Exchange), he used to re- 
proach him with his usuries and hard dealings, which 
the Jew would bear with seeming patience, while he 
secretly meditated revenge. 

Anthonio was the kindest man that lived, the best 
conditioned, and had the most unwearied spirit in 
doing courtesies; indeed he was one in whom the an- 
cient Roman honour more appeared than in any that 
drew breath in Italy. He was greatly beloved by all 
his fellow-citizens; but. the friend who was nearest and 
dearest to his heart was Bassanio, a noble Venetian, 
who, having but a small patrimony, had nearly ex- 
hausted his little fortune by living in too expensive a 

Tales from Shakspeare. • 



98 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

manner for his slender means, as young men of high 
rank with small fortunes are too apt to do. Whenever Bas- 
sanio wanted money, Anthonio assisted him; and it 
seemed as if they had but one heart and one purse 
between them. 

One day Bassanio came to Anthonio, and told him 
that he wished to repair his fortune by a wealthy mar- 
riage with a lady whom he dearly loved, whose father, 
that was lately dead, had left her sole heiress to a 
large estate; and that in her father's lifetime he used 
to visit at her house, when he thought he had observed 
this lady had sometimes from her eyes sent speechless 
messages, that seemed to say he would be no unwel- 
come suitor; but not having money to furnish himself 
with an appearance befitting the lover of so rich an 
heiress, he besought Anthonio to add to the many fa- 
vours he had shown him, by lending him three thou- 
sand ducats. 

Anthonio had no money by him at that time to 
lend his friend; but expecting soon to have some ships 
come home laden with merchandise, he said he would 
go to Shylock, the rich money-lender, and borrow the 
money upon the credit of those ships. 

Anthonio and Bassanio went together to Shylock, 
and Anthonio asked the Jew to lend him three thou- 
sand ducats upon any interest he should require, to be 
paid out of the merchandise contained in his ships at 
sea. On this, Shylock thought within himself, "If I 
can once catch him on the hip, I will feed fat the an- 
cient grudge I bear him: he hates our Jewish nation; 
he lends out money gratis, and among the merchants 
he rails at me and my well-earned bargains, which he 
calls interest. Cursed be my tribe if I forgive him!" 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 99 

Anthonio finding he was musing within himself and 
did not answer, and being impatient for the money, 
said, "Shy lock, do you hear? will you lend the money?" 
To this question the Jew replied, "Signior Anthonio, 
on the Rialto many a time and often you have railed 
at me about my monies and my usuries, and I have 
borne it with a patient shrug, for sufferance is the 
badge of all our tribe; and then you have called me 
unbeliever, cut-throat dog, and spit upon my Jewish 
garments, and spurned at me with your foot, as if I 
was a cur. Well then, it now appears you need my 
help; and you come to me, and say, Shylock, lend me 
monies. Has a dog money? Is it possible a cur should 
lend three thousand ducats? Shall I bend low and say, 
Fair sir, you spit upon me on Wednesday last, another 
time you called me dog, and for these courtesies I am 
to lend you monies?" Anthonio replied, "I am as like 
to call you so again* to spit on you again, and spurn 
you too. If you will lend me this money, lend it not 
to me as to a friend, but rather lend it to me as to an 
enemy, that, if I break, you may with better face ex- 
act the penalty." — "Why, look you," said Shylock, 
"how you storm! I would be friends with you, and 
have your love. I will forget the shames you have 
put upon me. I will supply your wants, and take no 
interest for my money." This seemingly kind offer 
greatly surprised Anthonio; and then Shylock, still 
pretending kindness, and that all he did was to gain 
Anthonio's love, again said he would lend him the 
three thousand ducats, and take no interest for his 
money; only Anthonio should go with him to a lawyer, 
and there sign in merry sport a bond, that if he did 
not repay the money by a certain day, he would for- 

7* 



100 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

feit a pound of flesh, to be cut off from any part of 
bis body that Shylock pleased. 

"Content," said Anthonio : "I will sign to this bond, 
and say there is much kindness in the Jew." 

Bassanio said, Anthonio should not sign to such a 
bond for him ; but still Anthonio insisted that he would 
sign it, for that before the day of payment came, his 
ships would return laden with many times the value 
of the money. 

Shylock, hearing this debate, exclaimed, "0 Father 
Abraham, what suspicious people these Christians are! 
Their own hard dealings teach them to suspect the 
thoughts of others. I pray you tell me this, Bassanio: 
if he should break this day, what should I gain by the 
exaction of the forfeiture? A pound of man's flesh, 
taken from a man, is not so estimable, nor profitable 
either, as the flesh of mutton or of beef. I say, to 
buy his favour I offer this friendship: if he will take 
it, so; if not, adieu." 

At last, against the advice of Bassanio, who, not- 
withstanding all the Jew had said of his kind inten- 
tions, did not like his friend should run the hazard of 
this shocking penalty for his sake, Anthonio signed the 
bond, thinking it really was (as the Jew said) merely 
in sport. 

The rich heiress that Bassanio wished to marry 
lived near Venice, at a place called Belmont: her name 
was Portia, and in the graces of her person and her 
mind she was nothing inferior to that Portia, of whom 
we read, who was Cato's daughter, and the wife of 
Brutus. 

Bassanio being so kindly supplied with money by 
his friend Anthonio, at the hazard of his life, set out 



IHE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 101 

for Belmont with a splendid train, attended by a gen- 
tleman of the name of Gratiano. 

Bassanio proving successful in his suit, Portia in a 
short time consented to accept of him for a husband. 

Bassanio confessed to Portia that he had no fortune, 
and that his high birth and noble ancestry was all that 
he could boast of; she, who loved him for his worthy 
qualities, and had riches enough not to regard wealth 
in a husband, answered with a graceful modesty, that 
she would wish herself a thousand times more fair, and 
ten thousand times more rich, to be more worthy of 
him; and then the accomplished Portia prettily dis- 
praised herself, and said she was an unlessoned girl, 
unschooled, unpractised, yet not so old but that she 
could learn, and that she would commit her gentle 
spirit to be directed and governed by him in all things; 
and she said, "Myself and what is mine, to you and 
yours is now converted. But yesterday, Bassanio, I 
was the lady of this fair mansion, queen of myself, 
and mistress over these servants; and now this house, 
these servants, and myself, are yours, my lord; I give 
them with this ring:" presenting a ring to Bassanio. 

Bassanio was so overpowered with gratitude and 
wonder at the gracious manner in which the rich and 
noble Portia accepted of a man of his humble fortunes, 
that he could not express his joy and reverence to the 
dear lady who so honoured him, by anything but 
broken words of love and thankfulness; and taking 
the ring, he vowed never to part with it. 

Gratiano and Nerissa, Portia's waiting-maid, were 
in attendance upon their lord and lady, when Portia 
so gracefully promised to become the obedient wife of 
Bassanio; and Gratiano, wishing Bassanio and the 



102 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

generous lady joy, desired permission to be married at 
the same time. 

"With all my heart, Gratiano," said Bassanio, "if 
you can get a wife." 

Gratiano then said that he loved the lady Portia's 
fair waiting gentlewoman, ISTerissa, and that she had 
promised to be his wife, if her lady married Bassanio. 
Portia asked Nerissa if this was true. Nerissa replied, 
"Madam, it is so, if you approve of it." Portia wil- 
lingly consenting, Bassanio pleasantly said, "Then our 
wedding-feast shall be much honoured by your mar- 
riage, Gratiano." 

The happiness of these lovers was sadly crossed at 
this moment by the entrance of a messenger, who 
brought a letter from Anthonio containing fearful tid- 
ings. When Bassanio read Anthonio's letter, Portia 
feared it was to tell him of the death of some dear 
friend, he looked so pale; and inquiring what was the 
news which had so distressed him, he said, "0 sweet 
Portia, here are a few of the unpleasantest words that 
ever blotted paper: gentle lady, when I first imparted 
my love to you, I freely told you all the wealth I had 
ran in my veins; but I should have told you that I 
had less than nothing, being in debt." Bassanio then 
told Portia what has been here related, of his borrow- 
ing the money of Anthonio, and of Anthonio's pro- 
curing it of Shylock the Jew, and of the bond by 
which Anthonio had engaged to forfeit a pound of 
flesh, if it was not repaid by a certain day: and then 
Bassanio read Anthonio's letter; the words of which were, 
"Sweet Bassanio, my ships are all lost, my bond to the 
Jew is forfeited, and since in paying it is impossible I 
should live, I could wish to see you at my death; not- 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 103 

withstanding , use your pleasure; if your love for me do 
not persuade you to come, let not my letter" "0 my 
dear love," said Portia, "despatch all business, and be- 
gone; you shall have gold to pay the money twenty 
times over, before this kind friend shall lose a hair 
by my Bassanio's fault; and as you are so dearly 
bought, I will dearly love you." Portia then said she 
would be married to Bassanio before he set out, to 
give him a legal right to her money; and that same 
day they were married, and Gratiano was also married 
to Nerissa; and Bassanio and Gratiano, the instant 
they were married, set out in great haste for Venice, 
where Bassanio found Anthonio in prison. 

The day of payment being past, the cruel Jew 
would not accept of the money which Bassanio offered 
him, but insisted upon having a pound of Anthonio's 
flesh. A day was appointed to try this shocking cause 
before the duke of -Venice, and Bassanio awaited in 
dreadful suspense the event of the trial. 

When Portia parted with her husband, she spoke 
cheeringly to him, and bade him bring his dear friend 
along with him when he returned: yet she feared it 
would go hard with Anthonio, and when she was left 
alone, she began to think and consider within herself, 
if she could by any means be instrumental in saving 
the life of her dear Bassanio's friend; and notwithstand- 
ing, when she wished to honour her Bassanio, she had 
said to him with such a meek and wife-like grace, that 
she would submit in all things to be governed by his 
superior wisdom, yet being now called forth into action 
by the peril of her honoured husband's friend, she did 
nothing doubt her own powers, and by the sole guidance 
of her own true and perfect judgment, at once resolved 



104 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

to go herself to Venice, and speak in Anthonio's de- 
fence. 

Portia had a relation who was a counsellor in the 
law; to this gentleman, whose name was Bellario, she 
wrote, and stating the case to him, desired his opinion, 
and that with his advice he would also send her the 
dress worn by a counsellor. When the messenger re- 
turned, he brought letters from Bellario of advice how 
to proceed, and also everything necessary for her 
equipment. 

Portia dressed herself and her maid Nerissa in men's 
apparel, and putting on the robes of a counsellor, she 
took Nerissa along with her as her clerk; and setting 
out immediately, they arrived at Venice on the very 
day of the trial. The cause was just going to be heard 
before the duke and senators of Venice in the senate- 
house, when Portia entered this high court of justice, 
and presented a letter from Bellario, in which that 
learned counsellor wrote to the duke, saying, he would 
have come himself to plead for Anthonio, but that he 
was prevented by sickness, and he requested that the 
learned young doctor Balthasar (so he called Portia) 
might be permitted to plead in his stead. This the 
duke granted, much wondering at the youthful ap- 
pearance of the stranger, who was prettily disguised by 
her counsellor's robes and her large wig. 

And now began this important trial. Portia looked 
around her, and she saw the merciless Jew; and she 
saw Bassanio, but he knew her not in her disguise. He 
was standing beside Anthonio, in an agony of distress 
and fear for his friend. 

The importance of the arduous task Portia had 
engaged in gave this tender lady courage, and she 



THE MERCHANT OP VENICE. 105 

boldly proceeded in the duty she had undertaken to 
perform: and first of all she addressed herself to Shylock; 
and allowing that he had a right by the Venetian law 
to have the forfeit expressed in the bond, she spoke so 
sweetly of the noble quality of mercy, as would have 
softened any heart but the unfeeling Shylock's; saying, 
that it dropped as the gentle rain from heaven upon 
the place beneath; and how mercy was a double blessing, 
it blessed him that gave, and him that received it; and 
how it became monarchs better than their crowns, being 
an attribute of God himself; and that earthly power 
came nearest to God's, in proportion as mercy tempered 
justice; and she bid Shylock remember that as we all 
pray for mercy, that same prayer should teach us to 
show mercy. Shylock only answered her by desiring 
to have the penalty forfeited in the bond. "Is he not 
able to pay the money?" asked Portia. Bassanio then 
offered the Jew the payment of the three thousand 
ducats as many times over as he should desire; which 
Shylock refusing, and still insisting upon having a 
pound of Anthonio's flesh, Bassanio begged the learned 
young counsellor would endeavour to wrest the law a 
little, to save Anthonio's life. But Portia gravely an- 
swered, that laws once established must never be altered. 
Shylock hearing Portia say that the law might not be 
altered, it seemed to him that she was pleading in his 
favour, and he said, "A Daniel is come to judgment! 
wise young judge, how I do honour you! How much 
elder are you than your looks?" 

Portia now desired Shylock to let her look at the 
bond; and when she had read it, she said, "This bond 
is forfeited, and by this the Jew may lawfully claim 
a pound of flesh, to be by him cut off nearest Anthonio's 



106 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

heart." Then she said to Shylock, "Be merciful: take 
the money, and bid me tear the bond." But no mercy 
would the cruel Shylock show, and he said, u Bj my 
soul I swear, there is no power in the tongue of man 
to alter me." — "Why then, Anthonio," said Portia, 
"you must prepare your bosom for the knife:" and 
while Shylock was sharpening a long knife with great 
eagerness to cut off the pound of flesh, Portia said to 
Anthonio, "Have you anything to say?" Anthonio with 
a calm resignation replied, that he had but little to 
say, for that he had prepared his mind for death. Then 
he said to Bassanio, "Give me your hand, Bassanio! 
Fare you well! Grieve not that I am fallen into this 
misfortune for you. Commend me to your honourable 
wife, and tell her how I have loved you!" Bassanio in 
the deepest affliction replied, "Anthonio, I am married 
to a wife, who is as dear to me as life itself; but life 
itself, my wife, and all the world, are not esteemed 
with me above your life: I would lose all, I would 
sacrifice all to this devil here, to deliver you." 

Portia hearing this, though the kind-hearted lady 
was not at all offended with her husband for expressing 
the love he owed to so true a friend as Anthonio in 
these strong terms, yet could not help answering, "Your 
wife would give you little thanks, if she were present, 
to hear you make this offer." And then Gratiano, who 
loved to copy what his lord did, thought he must make 
a speech like Bassanio's, and he said, in Nerissa's hear- 
ing, who was writing in her clerk's dress by the side 
of Portia, "I have a wife, whom I protest I love; I 
wish she were in heaven, if she could but entreat some 
power there to change the cruel temper of this currish 
Jew" "It is well you wish this behind her back, 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 107 

else you would have but an unquiet house," said 
Nerissa. 

Shylock now cried out impatiently, "We trifle time; 
I pray pronounce the sentence." And now all was 
awful expectation in the court, and every heart was 
full of grief for Anthonio. 

Portia asked if the scales were ready to weigh the 
flesh; and she said to the Jew, "Shylock, you must 
have some surgeon by, lest he bleed to death." Shy- 
lock, whose whole intent was that Anthonio should 
bleed to death, said, "It is not so named in the bond." 
Portia replied, "It is not so named in the bond, but 
what of that? It were good you did so much for charity." 
To this all the answer Shylock would make was, "I 
cannot find it; it is not in the bond." "Then," said 
Portia, "a pound of Anthonio's flesh is thine. The 
law allows it, and the court awards it. And you may 
cut this flesh from 'off his breast. The law allows it, 
and the court awards it." Again Shylock exclaimed, 
"0 wise and upright judge! A Daniel is come to judg- 
ment!" And then he sharpened his long knife again, 
and looking eagerly on Anthonio, he said, "Come, 
prepare!" 

"Tarry a little, Jew," said Portia; "there is some- 
thing else. This bond here gives you no drop of blood; 
the words expressly are, 'a pound of flesh.' If in the 
cutting off the pound of flesh you shed one drop of 
Christian blood, your lands and goods are by the law 
to be confiscated to the state of Venice." Now as it 
was utterly impossible for Shylock to cut off the pound 
of flesh without shedding some of Anthonio's blood, this 
wise discovery of Portia's, that it was flesh and not 
blood that was named in the bond, saved the life of 



108 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Anthonio; and all admiring the wonderful sagacity of 
the young counsellor, who had so happily thought of 
this expedient, plaudits resounded from every part of 
the senate-house; andGratiano exclaimed, in the words 
which Shylock had used, "0 wise and upright judge! 
mark, Jew, a Daniel is come to judgment!" 

Shylock, finding himself defeated in his cruel in- 
tent, said with a disappointed look, that he would take 
the money, and Bassanio, rejoiced beyond measure at 
Anthonio's unexpected deliverance, cried out, "Here is 
the money!" But Portia stopped him, saying, "Softly; 
there is no haste; the Jew shall have nothing but the 
penalty: therefore prepare, Shylock, to cut off the flesh; 
but mind you shed no blood; nor do not cut off more 
nor less than just a pound; be it more or less by one 
poor scruple, nay if the scale turn but by the weight 
of a single hair, you are condemned by the laws of 
Venice to die, and all your wealth is forfeited to the 
senate." "Give me my money, and let me go," said 
Shylock. "I have it ready," said Bassanio: "here 
it is." 

Shylock was going to take the money, when Portia 
again stopped him, saying, "Tarry, Jew; I have yet 
another hold upon you. By the laws of Venice, your 
wealth is forfeited to the state, for having conspired 
against the life of one of its citizens, and your life lies 
at the mercy of the duke; therefore, down on your 
knees, and ask him to pardon you." 

The duke then said to Shylock, "That you may 
see the difference of our Christian spirit, I pardon you 
your life before you ask it; half your wealth belongs 
to Anthonio, the other half comes to the state." 

The generous Anthonio then said, that he would 



THE MERCHANT OP VENICE. 109 

give up his share of Shylock's wealth, if Shylock would 
sign a deed to make it over at his death to his daughter 
and her husband; forAnthonio knew that the Jew had 
an only daughter who had lately married against his 
consent to a young Christian, named Lorenzo, a friend 
of Anthonio's, which had so offended Shylock, that he 
had disinherited her. 

The Jew agreed to this: and being thus disappointed 
in his revenge, and despoiled of his riches, he said, 
"I am ill. Let me go home; send the deed after me, 
and I will sign over half my riches to my daughter." 
— "Get thee gone, then," said the duke, "and sign it; 
and if you repent your cruelty and turn Christian, the 
state will forgive you the fine of the other half of your 
riches." 

The duke now released Anthonio, and dismissed the 
court. He then highly praised the wisdom and in- 
genuity of the young counsellor, and invited him home 
to dinner. Portia, who meant to return to Belmont 
before her husband, replied, "I humbly thank your 
grace, but I must away directly." The duke said he 
was sorry he had not leisure to stay and dine with 
him; and turning to Anthonio, he added, "Reward this 
gentleman; for in my mind you are much indebted to 
him." 

The duke and his senators left the court; and then 
Bassanio said to Portia, "Most worthy gentleman, I 
and my friend Anthonio have by your wisdom been 
this day acquitted of grievous penalties, and I beg you 
will accept of the three thousand ducats due unto the 
Jew." "And we shall stand indebted to you over 
and above," said Anthonio, "in love and service ever- 



110 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Portia could not be prevailed upon to accept the 
money; but upon Bassanio still pressing her to accept 
of some reward, she said, "Give me your gloves; I 
will wear them for your sake;" and then Bassanio 
taking off his gloves, she espied the ring which she 
had given him upon his finger: now it was the ring 
the wily lady wanted to get from him to make a merry 
jest when she saw her Bassanio again, that made her 
ask him for his gloves; and she said, when she saw 
the ring, "And for your love I will take this ring from 
you." Bassanio was sadly distressed, that the coun- 
sellor should ask him for the only thing he could not 
part with, and he replied in great confusion, that he 
could not give him that ring, because it was his wife's 
gift, and he had vowed never to part with it; but that 
he would give him the most valuable ring in Venice, 
and find it out by proclamation. On this Portia affected 
to be affronted, and left the court, saying, "You teach 
me, sir, how a beggar should be answered." 

"Dear Bassanio," said Anthonio , "let him have the 
ring; let my love and the great service he has done 
for me be valued against your wife's displeasure." 
Bassanio, ashamed to appear so ungrateful, yielded, 
and sent Gratiano after Portia with the ring; and then 
the clerk Nerissa, who had also given Gratiano a ring, 
she begged his ring, and Gratiano (not choosing to be 
outdone in generosity by his lord) gave it to her. And 
there was laughing among these ladies to think, when 
they got home, how they would tax their husbands 
with giving away their rings, and swear that they had 
given them as a present to some woman. 

Portia, when she returned, was in that happy 
temper of mind which never fails to attend the con- 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. Ill 

sciousness of having performed a good action*, her 
cheerful spirits enjoyed everything she saw: the moon 
never seemed to shine so bright before; and when that 
pleasant moon was hid behind a cloud, then a light 
which she saw from her house at Belmont as well 
pleased her charmed fancy, and she said to Nerissa, 
"That light we see is burning in my hall; how far 
that little candle throws its beams, so shines a good 
deed in a naughty world;" and hearing the sound of 
music from her house, she said, "Methinks that music 
sounds much sweeter than by day." 

And now Portia and Nerissa entered the house, 
and dressing themselves in their own apparel, they 
awaited the arrival of their husbands, who soon followed 
them with Anthonio; and Bassanio presenting his dear 
friend to the lady Portia, the congratulations and wel- 
comings of that lady were hardly over, when they 
perceived Nerissa and her husband quarrelling in a 
corner of the room. "A quarrel already?" said Portia. 
"What is the matter?" Gratiano replied, "Lady, it is 
about a paltry gilt ring that Nerissa gave me, with 
words upon it like the poetry on a cutler's knife; Love 
me y and leave me ?iot" 

"What does the poetry or the value of the ring 
signify?" said Nerissa. "You swore to me when I 
gave it to you, that you would keep it till the hour of 
death; and now you say you gave it to the lawyer's 
clerk. I know you gave it to a woman." — "By this 
hand," replied Gratiano, "I gave it to a youth, a kind 
of boy, a little scrubbed boy, no higher than yourself; 
he was clerk to the young counsellor that by his wise 
pleading saved Anthonio's life! this prating boy begged 
it for a fee, and I could not for my life deny him." 



112 TALEkS prom shakspeare. 

Portia said, "You were to blame, Gratiano, to part 
with your wife's first gift. I gave my lord Bassanio a 
ring, and I am sure he would not part with it for all 
the world." Gratiano, in excuse for his fault, now said, 
"My lord Bassanio gave his ring away to the coun- 
sellor, and then the boy, his clerk, that took some 
pains in writing, he begged my ring." 

Portia, hearing this, seemed very angry and re- 
proached Bassanio for giving away her ring; and she 
said, Nerissa had taught her what to believe, and that 
she knew some woman had the ring. Bassanio was 
very unhappy to have so offended his dear lady, and 
he said with great earnestness, "No, by my honour, no 
woman had it, but a civil doctor, who refused three 
thousand ducats of me, and begged the ring, which 
when I denied him, he went displeased away. What 
could I do, sweet Portia? I was so beset with shame 
for my seeming ingratitude, that I was forced to send 
the ring after him. Pardon me, good lady; had you 
been there, I think you would have begged the ring 
of me to give the worthy doctor." 

"Ah!" said Anthonio, "I am the unhappy cause of 
these quarrels." 

Portia bid Anthonio not to grieve at that, for that 
he was welcome notwithstanding; and then Anthonio 
said; "I once did lend my body for Bassanio's sake* 
and but for him to whom your husband gave the ring, 
I should have now been dead. I dare be bound again, 
my soul upon the forfeit, your lord will never more 
break his faith with you." — "Then you shall be his 
surety," said Portia; "give him this ring, and bid him 
keep it better than the other." 

When Bassanio looked at this ring, he was strangely 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 113 

surprised to find it was the same he gave away, and 
then Portia told him, how she was the young counsellor, 
and Nerissa was her clerk; and Bassanio found, to his 
unspeakable wonder and delight, that it was by the 
noble courage and wisdom of his wife that Anthonio's 
life was saved. 

And Portia again welcomed Anthonio, and gave 
him letters which by some chance had fallen into her 
hands, which contained an account of Anthonio's ships, 
that were supposed lost, being safely arrived in the 
harbour. So these tragical beginnings of this rich 
merchant's story were all forgotten in the unexpected 
good fortune which ensued; and there was leisure to 
laugh at the comical adventure of the rings, and the 
husbands that did not know their own wives: Gratiano 
merrily swearing, in a sort of rhyming speech, that 

while he Ijved , he'd fear no other thing 

So sore, as keeping safe Nerissa's ring. 



Tales from Shakspeare. 



114 TALES PROM SHAKSPEARE. 



CYMBELINE. 



During the time of Augustus Csesar, emperor of 
Rome, there reigned in England (which was then called 
Britain) a king whose name was Cymbeline. 

Cymbeline's first wife died when his three children 
(two sons and a daughter) were very young. Imogen, 
the eldest of these children, was brought up in her 
father's court; but by a strange chance the two sons of 
Cymbeline were stolen out of their nursery, when the 
eldest was but three years of age, and the youngest 
quite an infant-, and Cymbeline could never discover 
what was become of them, or by whom they were con- 
veyed away. 

Cymbeline was twice married: his second wife was 
a wicked, plotting woman, and a cruel stepmother to 
Imogen, Cymbeline's daughter by his first wife. 

The queen, though she hated Imogen, yet wished 
her to marry a son of her own by a former husband 
(she also having been twice married): for by this 
means she hoped upon the death of Cymbeline to place 
the crown of Britain upon the head of her son Cloten; 
for she knew that, if the king's sons were not found, 
the princess Imogen must be the king's heir. But this 
design was prevented by Imogen herself, who married 
without the consent or even knowledge of her father 
or the queen. 



CYMBELINE. 115 

Postliumus (for that was the name of Imogen's 
husband) was the best scholar and most accomplished 
gentleman of that age. His father died fighting in 
the wars for Cymbeline, and soon after his birth his 
mother died also for grief at the loss of her husband. 

Cymbeline, pitying the helpless state of this or- 
phan, took Posthumus (Cymbeline having given him 
that name, because he was born after his father's 
death), and educated him in his own court. 

Imogen and Posthumus were both taught by the 
same masters, and were playfellows from their infancy ; 
they loved each other tenderly when they were chil- 
dren, and their affection continuing to increase with 
their years, when they grew up they privately mar- 
ried. 

The disappointed queen soon learnt this secret, for 
she kept spies constantly in watch upon the actions of 
her daughter-in-law, and she immediately told the king 
of the marriage of Imogen with Posthumus. 

Nothing could exceed the wrath of Cymbeline, 
when he heard that his daughter had been so forgetful 
of her high dignity as to marry a subject. He com- 
manded Posthumus to leave Britain, and banished him 
from his native country for ever. 

The queen, who pretended to pity Imogen for the 
grief she suffered at losing her husband, offered to 
procure them a private meeting before Posthumus set 
out on his journey to Eome, which place he had 
chosen for his residence in his banishment: this seeming 
kindness she showed, the better to succeed in her 
future designs in regard to her son Cloten; for she 
meant to persuade Imogen, when her husband was 

8* 



116 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

gone, that her marriage was not lawful, being con- 
tracted without the consent of the king. 

Imogen and Posthumus took a most affectionate 
leave of each other. Imogen gave her husband a 
diamond ring, which had been her mother's, and Post- 
humus promised never to part with the ring; and he 
fastened a bracelet on the arm of his wife, which he 
begged she would preserve with great care, as a token 
of his love; they then bid each other farewell, with 
many vows of everlasting love and fidelity. 

Imogen remained a solitary and dejected lady in 
her father's court, and Posthumus arrived at Rome, the 
place he had chosen for his banishment. 

Posthumus fell into company at Rome with some 
gay young men of different nations, who were talking 
freely of ladies: each one praising the ladies of his 
own country, and his own mistress. Posthumus, who 
had ever his own dear lady in his mind, affirmed that 
his wife, the fair Imogen, was the most virtuous, wise, 
and constant lady in the world. 

One of these gentlemen, whose name was Iachimo, 
being offended that a lady of Britain should be so 
praised above the Roman ladies, his country-women, 
provoked Posthumus by seeming to doubt the con- 
stancy of his so highly-praised wife; and at length, 
after much altercation, Posthumus consented to a pro- 
posal of Iachimo's, that he (Iachimo) should go to Bri- 
tain, and endeavour to gain the love of the married 
Imogen. They then laid a wager, that if Iachimo did 
not succeed in this wicked design, he was to forfeit a 
large sum of money; but if he could win Imogen's 
favour, and prevail upon her to give him the bracelet 
which Posthumus had so earnestly desired she would 



OYMLELINE. 117 

keep as a token of his love, then the wager was to 
terminate with Posthumns giving to Iachimo the ring, 
which was Imogen's love present when she parted with 
her husband. Such firm faith had Posthumus in the 
fidelity of Imogen, that he thought he ran no hazard 
in this trial of her honour. 

Iachimo, on his arrival in Britain, gained admit- 
tance, and a courteous welcome from Imogen, as a 
friend of her husband; but when he began to make 
professions of love to her, she repulsed him with dis- 
dain, and he soon found that he could have no hope 
of succeeding in his dishonourable design. 

The desire Iachimo had to win the wager made 
him now have recourse to a stratagem to impose upon 
Posthumus, and for this purpose he bribed some of 
Imogen's attendants, and was by them conveyed into 
her bedchamber, concealed in a large trunk, where he 
remained shut up till Imogen was retired to rest, and 
had fallen asleep; and then getting out of the trunk, 
he examined the chamber with great attention, and 
wrote down everything he saw there, and particularly 
noticed a mole which he observed upon Imogen's neck, 
and then softly unloosing the bracelet from her arm, 
which Posthumus had given to her, he retired into the 
chest again; and the next day he set off for Rome 
with great expedition, and boasted to Posthumus that 
Imogen had given him the bracelet, and likewise per- 
mitted him to pass a night in her chamber: and in 
this manner Iachimo told his false tale: "Her bed- 
chamber," said he, "was hung with tapestry of silk 
and silver, the story was the proud Cleopatra when she 
met her Anthony, a piece of work most bravely 
wrought." 



118 TALES PEOM SHAKSPEARE. 

"This is true," said Posthumus; "but this you 
might have heard spoken of without seeing." 

"Then the chimney," said Iachimo, "is south of 
the chamber, and the chimney-piece is Diana bathing; 
never saw I figures livelier expressed." 

"This is a thing you might have likewise heard," 
said Posthumus; "for it is much talked of." 

Iachimo as accurately described the roof of the 
chamber; and added, "I had almost forgot her and- 
irons; they were tivo winking Cupids made of silver, 
each on one foot standing." He then took out the 
bracelet, and said, "Know you this jewel, sir? She 
gave me this. She took it from her arm. I see her 
yet: her pretty action did outsell her gift, and yet 
enriched it too. She gave it me, and said, she prized 
it once" He last of all described the mole he had ob- 
served upon her neck. 

Posthumus, who had heard the whole of this artful 
recital in an agony of doubt, now broke out into the 
most passionate exclamations against Imogen. He de- 
livered up the diamond ring to Iachimo, which he had 
agreed to forfeit to him, if he obtained the bracelet 
from Imogen. 

Posthumus then in a jealous rage wrote to Pisanio, 
a gentleman of Britain, who was one of Imogen's at- 
tendants, and had long been a faithful friend to Post- 
humus; and after telling him what proof he had of his 
wife's disloyalty, he desired Pisanio would take Imogen 
to Milford-Haven, a sea-port of Wales, and there kill 
her. And at the same time he wrote a deceitful letter 
to Imogen, desiring her to go with Pisanio, for that 
finding he could live no longer without seeing her, 
though he was forbidden upon pain of death to return 



CYMBELINB. 119 

to Britain, he would come to Milford-Haven, at which 
place he begged she would meet him. She, good un- 
suspecting lady, who loved her husband above all 
things, and desired more than her life to see him, 
hastened her departure with Pisanio, and the same 
night she received the letter she set out. 

When their journey was nearly at an end, Pisanio, 
who, though faithful to Posthumus, was not faithful to 
serve him in an evil deed, disclosed to Imogen the 
cruel order he had received. 

Imogen, who, instead of meeting a loving and be- 
loved husband, found herself doomed by that husband 
to suffer death, was afflicted beyond measure. 

Pisanio persuaded her to take comfort, and wait 
with patient fortitude for the time when Posthumus 
should see and repent his injustice: in the mean time, 
as she refused in her distress to return to her father's 
court, he advised her to dress herself in boy's clothes 
for more security in travelling; to which advice she 
agreed, and thought in that disguise she would go 
over to Kome, and see her husband, whom, though he 
had used her so barbarously, she could not forget to 
love. 

When Pisanio had provided her with her new ap- 
parel, he left her to her uncertain fortune, being 
obliged to return to court; but before he departed he 
gave her a phial of cordial, which he said the queen 
had given him as a sovereign remedy in all disorders. 

The queen, who hated Pisanio because he was a 
friend to Imogen and Posthumus, gave him this phial, 
which she supposed contained poison, she having or- 
dered her physician to give her some poison, to try its 
effects (as she said) upon animals; but the physician. 



120 TALES FllOM SHAKSPEARE. 

knowing her malicious disposition, would not trust her 
with real poison, but gave her a drug which would do 
no other mischief than causing a person to sleep with 
every appearance of death for a few hours. This 
mixture, which Pisanio thought a choice cordial, he 
gave to Imogen, desiring her, if she found herself ill 
upon the road, to take it; and so, with blessings and 
prayers for her safety and happy deliverance from her 
undeserved troubles, he left her. 

Providence strangely directed Imogen's steps to the 
dwelling of her two brothers, who had been stolen 
away in their infancy. Bellarius, who stole them away, 
was a lord in the court of Cymbelme, and having 
been falsely accused to the king of treason, and 
banished from the court, in revenge he stole away the 
two sons of Cymbeline, and brought them up in a 
forest, where he lived concealed in a cave. He stole 
them through revenge, but he soon loved them as 
tenderly as if they had been his own children, educated 
them carefully, and they grew up fine youths, their 
princely spirits leading them to bold and daring actions ; 
and as they subsisted by hunting, they were active and 
hardy, and were always pressing their supposed father 
to let them seek their fortune in the wars. 

At the cave where these youths dwelt it was 
Imogen's fortune to arrive. She had lost her way in a 
large forest, through which her road lay to Milford- 
Haven (from which she meant to embark for Kome); 
and being unable to find any place where she could 
purchase food, she was with weariness and hunger 
almost dying; for it is not merely putting on a man's 
apparel that will enable a young lady, tenderly brought 
up, to bear the fatigue of wandering about lonely 



CYMBELINB. 121 

forests like a man. Seeing this cave, she entered, 
hoping to find some one within of whom she could 
procure food. She found the cave empty, but looking 
about she discovered some cold meat, and her hunger 
was so pressing, that she could not wait for an invita- 
tion, but sat down and began to eat. "Ah," said she, 
talking to herself, "I see a man's life is a tedious one; 
how tired am I! for two nights together I have made 
the ground my bed: my resolution helps me, or I 
should be sick. When Pisanio showed me Milford- 
Haven from the mountain top, how near it seemed!" 
Then the thoughts of her husband and his cruel man- 
dale came across her, and she said, "My dear Post- 
humus, thou art a false one!" 

The two brothers of Imogen, who had been hunt- 
ing with their reputed father Bellarius, were by this 
time returned home. Bellarius had given them the 
names of Polidore and Cadwal, and they knew no 
better, but supposed that Bellarius was their father; 
but the real names of these princes were Guiderius and 
Arviragus. 

Bellarius entered the cave first, and seeing Imogen, 
stopped them, saying, "Come not in yet; it eats our 
victuals, or I should think it was a fairy." 

"What is the matter, sir?" said the young men. 
"By Jupiter," said Bellarius again, "there is an angel 
in the cave, or if not, an earthly paragon." So beauti- 
ful did Imogen look in her boy's apparel. 

She, hearing the sound of voices, came forth from 
the cave, and addressed them in these words: "Good 
masters, do not harm me; before I entered your cave, 
I had thought to have begged or bought what I have 
eaten. Indeed I have stolen nothing, nor would I, 



122 TALES FROM SHAKSPBARB. 

though I had found gold strewed on the floor. Here 
is money for my meat, which I would have left on 
the board when I had made my meal, and parted with 
prayers for the provider." They refused her money 
with great earnestness. "I see you are angry with 
me," said the timid Imogen; "but, sirs, if you kill me 
for my fault, know that I should have died if I had 
not made it." 

"Whither are you bound?" asked Bellarius, "and 
what is your name?" 

"Fidele is my name," answered Imogen. "I have 
a kinsman, who is bound for Italy, he embarked at 
Milford-Haven, to whom being going, almost spent 
with hunger, I am fallen into this offence." 

"Prithee, fair youth," said old Bellarius, "do not 
think us churls, nor measure our good minds by this 
rude place we live in. You are well encountered; it is 
almost night. You shall have better cheer before you 
depart, and thanks to stay and eat it. Boys, bid him 
welcome." 

The gentle youths, her brothers, then welcomed 
Imogen to their cave with many kind expressions, say- 
ing they would love her (or, as they said, him) as a 
brother; and they entered the cave, where (they having 
killed venison when they were hunting) Imogen de- 
lighted them with her neat housewifery, assisting them 
in preparing their supper; for though it is not the 
custom now for young women of high birth to under- 
stand cookery, it was then, and Imogen excelled in 
this useful art; and, as her brothers prettily expressed 
it, Fidele cut their roots in characters, and sauced 
their broth, as if Juno had been sick, and Fidele were 



CYMBELINE. 123 

her dieter. "And then," said Polidore to his brother, 
"how angel-like he sings!" 

They also remarked to each other, that though Fi- 
dele smiled so sweetly, yet so sad a melancholy did 
overcloud his lovely face, as if grief and patience had 
together taken possession of him. 

For these her gentle qualities (or perhaps it was 
their near relationship, though they knew it not) 
Imogen (or, as the boys called her, Fidele) became the 
doting -piece of her brothers, and she scarcely less 
loved them, thinking that but for the memory of her 
dear Posthumus, she could live and die in the cave 
with these wild forest youths ; and she gladly consented 
to stay with them till she was enough rested from the 
fatigue of travelling to pursue her way to Milford- 
Haven. 

When the venison they had taken was all eaten, 
and they were going out to hunt for more, Fidele 
could not accompany them because she was unwell. 
Sorrow, no doubt, for her husband's cruel usage, as 
well as the fatigue of wandering in the forest, was the 
cause of her illness. 

They then bid her farewell , and went to their hunt, 
praising all the way the noble parts and graceful de- 
meanour of the youth Fidele. 

Imogen was no sooner left alone than she recol- 
lected the cordial Pisanio had given her, and drank it 
off, and presently fell into a sound and deathlike 
sleep. 

When Bellarius and her brothers returned from 
hunting, Polidore went first into the cave, and sup- 
posing her asleep, pulled off his heavy shoes, that he 
might tread softly and not awake her; so did true 



124 TAXiES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

gentleness spring up in the minds of these princely 
foresters; but he soon discovered that she could not be 
awakened by any noise, and concluded her to be dead, 
and Polidore lamented over her with dear and brotherly 
regret, as if they had never from their infancy been 
parted. 

Bellarius also proposed to carry her out into the 
forest, and there celebrate her funeral with songs and 
solemn dirges, as was then the custom. 

Imogen's two brothers then carried her to a shady 
covert, and there laying her gently on the grass, they 
sang repose to her departed spirit, and covering her 
over with leaves and flowers, Polidore said, "While 
summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, I will daily 
strew thy grave. The pale primrose, that flower most 
like thy sad face; the blue-bell, like thy clear veins; 
and the leaf of eglantine, which is not sweeter than 
was thy breath; all these will I strew over thee. Yea, 
and the furred moss in winter, when there are no 
flowers to cover thy sweet corse." 

When they had finished her funeral obsequies, they 
departed very sorrowful. 

Imogen had not been long left alone, when, the 
effect of the sleepy drug going off, she awaked, and 
easily shaking off the slight covering of leaves and 
flowers they had thrown over her, she arose, and 
imagining she had been dreaming, she said, "I thought 
I was a cave-keeper, and cook to honest creatures; how 
came I here covered with flowers?" Not being able 
to find her way back to the cave, and seeing nothing 
of her new companions, she concluded it was certainly 
all a dream; and once more Imogen set out on her 
weary pilgrimage, hoping at last she should find her 



CYMBELINE. 125 

way to Milford-Haven , and thence get a passage in 
some ship bound for Italy; for all her thoughts were 
still with her husband Posthumus, whom she intended 
to seek in the disguise of a page. 

But great events were happening at this time, of 
which Imogen knew nothing; for a war had suddenly 
broken out between the Roman emperor Augustus Cae- 
sar, and Cymbeline, the king of Britain; and a Roman 
army had landed to invade Britain, and was advanced 
into the very forest over which Imogen was journeying. 
With this army came Posthumus. 

Though Posthumus came over to Britain with the 
Roman army, he did not mean to fight on their side 
against his own countrymen, but intended to join the 
army of Britain, and fight in the cause of his king, 
who had banished him. 

He still believed Imogen false to him; yet the death 
of her he had so fondly loved, and by his own orders 
too (Pisanio having written him a letter to say he had 
obeyed his command, and that Imogen was dead), sat 
heavy on his heart, and therefore he returned to Bri- 
tain, desiring either to be slain in battle, or to be put 
to death by Cymbeline for returning home from banish- 
ment. 

Imogen , before she reached Milford-Haven , fell into 
the hands of the Roman army; and her presence and 
deportment recommending her, she was made a page 
to Lucius, the Roman general. 

Cymbeline's army now advanced to meet the enemy, 
and when they entered this forest, Polidore and Cadwal 
joined the king's army. The young men were eager 
to engage in acts of valour, though they little thought 
they were going to fight for their own royal father: 



126 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

and old Bellarius went with them to the battle. He 
had long since repented of the injury he had done to 
Cymbeline in carrying away his sons; and having been 
a warrior in his youth, he gladly joined the army to 
fight for the king he had so injured. 

And now a great battle commenced between the 
two armies, and the Britons would have been defeated, 
and Cymbeline himself killed, but for the extraordinary 
valour of Posthumus and Bellarius, and the two sons 
of Cymbeline. They rescued the king, and saved his 
life, and so entirely turned the fortune of the day, 
that the Britons gained the victory. 

When the battle was over, Posthumus, who had 
not found the death he sought for, surrendered himself 
up to one of the officers of Cymbeline, willing to suffer 
the death which was to be his punishment if he re- 
turned from banishment. 

Imogen and the master she served were taken pri- 
soners, and brought before Cymbeline, as was also her 
old enemy Iachimo, who was an officer in the Roman 
army; and when these prisoners were before the king, 
Posthumus was brought in to receive his sentence of 
death; and at this strange juncture of time, Bellarius 
with Polidore and Cadwal were also brought before 
Cymbeline, to receive the rewards due to the great 
services they had by their valour done for the king. 
Pisanio, being one of the king's attendants, was like- 
wise present. 

Therefore there were now standing in the king's 
presence (but with very different hopes and fears) Post- 
humus, and Imogen, with her new master the Roman 
general; the faithful servant Pisanio, and the false 



CYMBELINE. 127 

friend Iachimo; and likewise the two lost sons of Cym- 
beline, with Bellarius, who had stolen them away. 

The Eoman general was the first who spoke; the 
rest stood silent before the king, though there was 
many a beating heart among them. 

Imogen saw Posthumus, and knew him, though he 
was in the disguise of a peasant; but he did not know 
her in her male attire: and she knew Iachimo, and she 
saw a ring on his finger which she perceived to be her 
own, but she did not know him as yet to have been 
the author of all her troubles: and she stood before her 
own father a prisoner of war. 

Pisanio knew Imogen, for it was he who had 
dressed her in the garb of a boy. "It is my mistress," 
thought he; "since she is living, let the time run on 
to good or bad." Bellarius knew her too, and softly 
said to Cadwal, "Is not this boy revived from death?" 
— "One sand," replied Cadwal, "does not more re- 
semble another than that sweet rosy lad is like the 
dead Fidele." — "The same dead thing alive," said 
Polidore. "Peace, peace," said Bellarius; "if it were 
he, I am sure he would have spoken to us." — "But 
we saw him dead," again whispered Polidore. "Be 
silent," replied Bellarius. 

Posthumus waited in silence to hear the welcome 
sentence of his own death; and he resolved not to dis- 
close to the king that he had saved his life in the 
battle, lest that should move Cymbeline to pardon 
him. 

Lucius, the Roman general, who had taken Imogen 
under his protection as his page, was the first (as has 
been before said) who spoke to the king. He was a 



128 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

man of high courage and noble dignity, and this was 
his speech to the king: — 

"I hear you take no ransom for your prisoners, but 
doom them all to death: I am a Roman, and with a 
Roman heart will suffer death. But there is one thing 
for which I would entreat." Then bringing Imogen 
before the king, he said, "This boy is a Briton born. 
Let him be ransomed. He is my page. Never master 
had a page so kind, so duteous, so diligent on all oc- 
casions, so true, so nurse-like. He hath done no Briton 
wrong, though he hath served a Roman. Save him, if 
you spare no one beside." 

Cymbeline looked earnestly on his daughter Imogen. 
He knew her not in that disguise; but it seemed that 
all-powerful Nature spake in his heart, for he said, "I 
have surely seen him, his face appears familiar to me. 
I know not why or wherefore I say, Live, boy; but I 
give you your life, and ask of me what boon you will, 
and I will grant it you. Yea, even though it be the 
life of the noblest prisoner I have." 

"I humbly thank your highness," said Imogen. 

What was then called granting a boon was the 
same as a promise to give any one thing, whatever it 
might be, that the person on whom that favour was 
conferred chose to ask for. They all were attentive to 
hear what thing the page would ask for; and Lucius 
her master said to her, "I do not beg my life, good 
lad, but I know that is what you will ask for." — 
"No, no, alas!" said Imogen, "I have other work in 
hand, good master; your life I cannot ask for." 

This seeming want of gratitude in the boy aston- 
ished the Roman general. 

Imogen then, fixing her eye onlachimo, demanded 



CYMBELINE. 129 

no other boon than this: that Iachimo should be made 
to confess whence he had the ring he wore on his 
finger. 

Cymbeline granted her this boon, and threatened 
Iachimo with the torture if he did not confess how he 
came by the diamond ring on his finger. 

Iachimo then made a full acknowledgment of all 
his villany, telling, as has been before related, the 
whole story of his wager with Posthumus, and how he 
had succeeded in imposing upon his credulity. 

What Posthumus felt at hearing this proof of the 
innocence of his lady cannot be expressed. He in- 
stantly came forward, and confessed to Cymbeline the 
cruel sentence which he had enjoined Pisanio to 
execute upon the princess; exclaiming wildly, "0 
Imogen, my queen, my life, my wife! Imogen, 
Imogen, Imogen!"- 

Imogen could not see her beloved husband in this 
distress without discovering herself, to the unutterable 
joy of Posthumus, who was thus relieved from a weight 
of guilt and woe, and restored to the good graces of 
the dear lady he had so cruelly treated. 

Cymbeline r almost as much overwhelmed as he 
with joy, at finding his lost daughter so strangely re- 
covered, received her to her former place in his fatherly 
affection, and not only gave her husband Posthumus 
his life, but consented to acknowledge him for his son- 
in-law. 

Bellarius chose this time of joy and reconciliation 
to make his confession. He presented Polidore and 
Cadwal to the king, telling him they were his two lost 
sons, Guiderius and Arviragus. 

Tales from Shaktpeare. 9 



130 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Cymbeline forgave old Bellarius; for who could 
think of punishments at a season of such universal 
happiness? To find his daughter living, and his lost 
sons in the persons of his young deliverers, that he 
had seen so bravely fight in his defence, was unlooked 
for joy indeed! 

Imogen was now at leisure to perform good services 
for her late master, the Roman general Lucius, whose 
life the king her father readily granted at her request; 
and by the mediation of the same Lucius a peace was 
concluded between the Romans and the Britons, which 
was kept inviolate many years. 

How Cymbeline's wicked queen, through despair 
of bringing her projects to pass, and touched with re- 
morse of conscience, sickened and died, having first 
lived to see her foolish son Cloten slain in a quarrel 
which he had provoked, are events too tragical to in- 
terrupt this happy conclusion by more than merely 
touching upon. It is sufficient that all were made 
happy who were deserving*, and even the treacherous 
Iachimo, in consideration of his villany having missed 
its final aim, was dismissed without punishment. 



KING LEAR. 131 



KING LEAK. 



Lear, king of Britain, had three daughters; Go- 
nerill, wife to the duke of Albany; Regan, wife to the 
duke of Cornwall; and Cordelia, a young maid, for 
whose love the king of France and duke of Burgundy 
were joint suitors, and were at this time making stay 
for that purpose in the court of Lear. 

The old king, worn out with age and the fatigues 
of government, he being more than fourscore years old, 
determined to take^no further part in state affairs, but 
to leave the management to younger strengths, that he 
might have time to prepare for death, which must at 
no long period ensue. With this intent he called his 
three daughters to him, to know from their own lips 
which of them loved him best, that he might part his 
kingdom among them in such proportions as their affec- 
tion for him should seem to deserve. 

Gonerill, the eldest, declared that she loved her 
father more than words could give out, that he was 
dearer to her than the light of her own eyes, dearer 
than life and liberty, with a deal of such professing 
stuff, which is easy to counterfeit where there is no 
real love, only a few fine words delivered with con- 
fidence being wanted in that case. The king, delighted 
to hear from her own mouth this assurance of her love, 
and thinking truly that her heart went with it, in a 

9* 



132 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

fit of fatherly fondness bestowed upon her and her hus- 
band one third of his ample kingdom. 

Then calling to him his second daughter, he de- 
manded what she had to say. Eegan, who was made 
of the same hollow metal as her sister, was not a whit 
behind in her professions, but rather declared that what 
her sister had spoken came short of the love which 
she professed to bear for his highness; insomuch that 
she found all other joys dead, in comparison with the 
pleasure which she took in the love of her dear king 
and father. 

Lear blessed himself in having such loving chil- 
dren, as he thought; and could do no less, after the 
handsome assurances which Kegan had made, than 
bestow a third of his kingdom upon her and her hus- 
band, equal in size to that which he had already given 
away to Gonerill. 

Then turning to his youngest daughter Cordelia, 
whom he called his joy, he asked what she had to say, 
thinking no doubt that she would glad his ears with 
the same loving speeches which her sisters had uttered, 
or rather that her expressions would be so much stronger 
than theirs, as she had always been his darling, and 
favoured by him above either of them. But Cordelia, 
disgusted with the flattery of her sisters, whose hearts 
she knew were far from their lips, and seeing that all 
their coaxing speeches were only intended to wheedle 
the old king out of his dominions, that they and their 
husbands might reign in his lifetime, made no other 
reply but thisj — that she loved his majesty according 
to her duty, neither more nor less. 

The king, shocked with this appearance of ingra- 
titude in his favourite child, desired her to consider 



KING LEAR. 133 

her words, and to mend her speech, lest it should mar 
her fortunes. 

Cordelia then told her father, that he was her 
father, that he had given her breeding, and loved her; 
that she returned those duties back as was most fit, 
and did obey him, love him, and most honour him. 
But that she could not frame her mouth to such large 
speeches as her sisters had done, or promise to love 
nothing else in the world. Why had her sisters hus- 
bands, if (as they said) they had no love for anything 
but their father? If she should ever wed, she was sure 
the lord to whom she gave her hand would want half 
her love, half of her care and duty, she should never 
marry like her sisters, to love her father all. 

Cordelia, who in earnest loved her old father even 
almost as extravagantly as her sisters pretended to do, 
would have plainly "told him so at any other time, in 
more daughter-like and loving terms, and without these 
qualifications, which did indeed sound a little ungra- 
cious; but after the crafty flattering speeches of her 
sisters, which she had seen draw such extravagant re- 
wards, she thought the handsomest thing she could do 
was to love and be silent. This put her affection out 
of suspicion of mercenary ends, and showed that she 
loved, but not for gain; and that her professions, the 
less ostentatious they were, had so much the more of 
truth and sincerity than her sisters'. 

This plainness of speech, which Lear called pride, 
so enraged the old monarch — who in his best of 
times always showed much of spleen and rashness, and 
in whom the dotage incident to old age had so clouded 
over his reason, that he could not discern truth from 
flattery, nor a gay painted speech from words that came 



134 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARfi. 

from the heart — that in a fury of resentment he re- 
tracted the third part of his kingdom which yet re- 
mained, and which he had reserved for Cordelia, and 
gave it away from her, sharing it equally between her 
two sisters and their husbands, the dukes of Albany 
and Cornwall; whom he now called to him, and in 
presence of all his courtiers bestowing a coronet be- 
tween them, invested them jointly with all the power, 
revenue, and execution of government, only retaining 
to himself the name of king; all the rest of royalty he 
resigned; with this reservation, that himself, with a 
hundred knights for his attendants, was to be main- 
tained by monthly course in each of his daughters 1 
palaces in turn. 

So preposterous a disposal of his kingdom, so little 
guided by reason, and so much by passion, filled all 
his courtiers with astonishment and sorrow; but none 
of them had the courage to interpose between this in- 
censed king and his wrath, except the earl of Kent, 
who was beginning to speak a good word for Cordelia, 
when the passionate Lear on pain of death commanded 
him to desist; but the good Kent was not so to be re- 
pelled. He had been ever loyal to Lear, whom he had 
honoured as a king, loved as a father, followed as a 
master; and he had never esteemed his life further 
than as a pawn to wage against his royal master's 
enemies, nor feared to lose it when Lear's safety was 
the motive; nor now that Lear was most his own enemy, 
did this faithful servant of the king forget his old 
principles, but manfully opposed Lear, to do Lear 
good; and was unmannerly only because Lear was mad. 
He had been a most faithful counsellor in times past 
to the king, and he besought him now, that he would 



KING LEAR. 135 

see with his eyes (as he had done in many weighty 
matters), and go by his advice still; and in his best 
consideration recall this hideous rashness: for he would 
answer with his life, his judgment that Lear's youngest 
daughter did not love him least, nor were those empty- 
hearted whose low sound gave no token of hollowness. 
When power bowed to flattery, honour was bound to 
plainness. For Lear's threats, what could he do to 
him, whose life was already at his service? That should 
not hinder duty from speaking. 

The honest freedom of this good earl of Kent only 
stirred up the king's wrath the more, and like a fran- 
tic patient who kills his physician, and loves his mortal 
disease, he banished this true servant, and allotted him 
but five days to make his preparations for departure; 
but if on the sixth his hated person was found within 
the realm of Britain, that moment was to be his death. 
And Kent bade farewell to the king, and said, that 
since he chose to show himself in such fashion, it was 
but banishment to stay there; and before he went, he 
recommended Cordelia to the protection of the gods, 
the maid who had so rightly thought, and so discreetly 
spoken; and only wished that her sisters' large speeches 
might be answered with deeds of love; and then he 
went as he said, to shape his old course to a new 
country. 

The king of France and duke of Burgundy were 
now called in to hear the determination of Lear about 
his youngest daughter, and to know whether they would 
persist in their courtship to Cordelia, now that she 
was under her father's displeasure, and had no fortune 
but her own person to recommend her; and the duke 
of Burgundy declined the match, and would not take 



136 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

her to wife upon such conditions; but the king of 
France, understanding what the nature of the fault had 
been which had lost her the love of her father, that it 
was only a tardiness of speech, and the not being able 
to frame her tongue to flattery like her sisters, took 
this young maid by the hand, and saying that her vir- 
tues were a dowry above a kingdom, bade Cordelia to 
take farewell of her sisters, and of her father, though 
he had been unkind, and she should go with him, and 
be queen of him and of fair France, and reign over 
fairer possessions than her sisters: and he called the 
duke of Burgundy in contempt a waterish duke, be- 
cause his love for this young maid had in a moment 
run all away like water. 

Then Cordelia with weeping eyes took leave of 
her sisters, and besought them to love their father 
well, and make good their professions: and they sul- 
lenly told her not to prescribe to them, for they knew 
their duty, but to strive to content her husband, who 
had taken her (as they tauntingly expressed it) as 
Fortune's alms. And Cordelia, with a heavy heart 
departed, for she knew the cunning of her sisters, and 
she wished her father in better hands than she was 
about to leave him in. 

Cordelia was no sooner gone, than the devilish dis- 
positions of her sisters began to show themselves in 
their true colours. Even before the expiration of the 
first month, which Lear was to spend by agreement 
with his eldest daughter Gonerill, the old king began 
to find out the difference between promises and per- 
formances. This wretch having got from her father 
all that he had to bestow, even to the giving away of 
the crown from off his head, began to grudge even 



KING LEAR. 137 

those small remnants of royalty which the old man 
had reserved to himself, to please his fancy with the 
idea of being still a king. She could not bear to see 
him and his hundred knights. Every time she met 
her father, she put on a frowning countenance; and 
when the old man wanted to speak with her, she would 
feign sickness, or anything to be rid of the sight of 
him; for it was plain that she esteemed his old age a 
useless burden, and his attendants an unnecessary ex- 
pense: not only she herself slackened in her expressions 
of duty to the king, but by her example, and (it is to 
bo feared) not without her private instructions, her very 
servants affected to treat him with neglect, and would 
either refuse to obey his orders, or still more contemptu- 
ously pretend not to hear them. Lear could not but 
perceive this alteration in the behaviour of his daughter, 
but he shut his eyes against it as long as he could, as 
people commonly are unwilling to believe the unpleasant 
consequences which their own mistakes and obstinacy 
have brought upon them. 

True love and fidelity are no more to be estranged 
by ill, than falsehood and hollo w-heartedness can be 
conciliated by good usage. This eminently appears in 
the instance of the good earl of Kent, who, though 
banished by Lear, and his life made forfeit if he were 
found in Britain, chose to stay and abide all con- 
sequences, as long as there was a chance of his being 
useful to the king his master. See to what mean shifts 
and disguises poor loyalty is forced to submit some- 
times; yet it counts nothing base or unworthy, so as it 
can but do service where it owes an obligation! In the 
disguise of a serving man, all his greatness and pomp 
laid aside, this good earl proffered his services to the 



138 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

king, who not knowing him to be Kent in that disguise, 
but pleased with a certain plainness, or rather blunt- 
ness in his answers, which the earl put on (so different 
from that smooth oily flattery which he had so much 
reason to be sick of, having found the effects not an- 
swerable in his daughter), a bargain was quickly struck, 
and Lear took Kent into his service by the name of 
Caius, as he called himself, never suspecting him to be 
his once great favourite, the high and mighty earl of 
Kent. 

This Caius quickly found means to show his fidel- 
ity and love to his royal master; for GroneriU's steward 
that same day behaving in a disrespectful manner to 
Lear, and giving him saucy looks and language, as no 
doubt he was secretly encouraged to do by his mistress, 
Caius, not enduring to hear so open an affront put upon 
his majesty, made no more ado but presently tripped 
up his heels, and laid the unmannerly slave in the kennel; 
for which friendly service Lear became more and more 
attached to him. 

Nor was Kent the only friend Lear had. In his 
degree, and as far as so insignificant a personage could 
show his love, the poor fool, or jester, that had been 
of his palace while Lear had a palace, as it was the 
custom of kings and great personages at that time to 
keep a fool (as he was called) to make them sport after 
serious business: this poor fool clung to Lear after he 
had given away his crown, and by his witty sayings 
would keep up his good humour, though he could not 
refrain sometimes from jeering at his master for his 
imprudence in uncrowning himself, and giving all away 
to his daughters; at which time, as he rhymingly ex- 
pressed it, these daughters 



KING LEAR. 139 

For sudden joy did weep , 

And he for sorrow sung, 
That such a king should play bo-peep, 

And go the fools among. 

And in such wild sayings, and scraps of songs, of 
which he had plenty, this pleasant honest fool poured 
out his heart even in the presence of G-onerill herself, 
in many a bitter taunt and jest which cut to the quick; 
such as comparing the king to the hedge-sparrow, who 
feeds the young of the cuckoo till they grow old enough, 
and then has its head bit off for its pains; and saying, 
that an ass may know when the cart draws the horse 
(meaning that Lear's daughters, that ought to go behind, 
now ranked before their father); and that Lear was 
no longer Lear, but the shadow of Lear: for which 
free speeches he was once or twice threatened to be 
whipped. 

The coolness* and falling off of respect which Lear 
had begun to perceive, were not all which this foolish 
fond father was to suffer from his unworthy daughter: 
she now plainly told him that his staying in her palace 
was inconvenient so long as he insisted upon keeping 
up an establishment of a hundred knights; that this 
establishment was useless and expensive, and only 
served to fill her court with riot and feasting; and she 
prayed him that he would lessen their number, and 
keep none but old men about him, such as himself, 
and fitting his age. 

Lear at first could not believe his eyes or ears, nor 
that it was his daughter who spoke so unkindly. He 
could not believe that she who had received a crown 
from him could seek to cut off his train, and grudge 
him the respect due to this old age. But she persisting 
in her undutiful demand, the old man's rage was so 



140 TALES PROM SHAKSPEARE, 

excited, that he called her a detested kite, and said 
that she spoke an untruth; and so indeed she did, for 
the hundred knights were all men of choice behaviour 
and sobriety of manners, skilled in all particulars of 
duty, and not given to rioting or feasting, as she said. 
And he bid his horses to be prepared, for he would go 
to his other daughter, Kegan, he and his hundred 
knights; and he spoke of ingratitude, and said it was 
a marble-hearted devil, and showed more hideous in a 
child than the sea-monster. And he cursed his eldest 
daughter Gonerill so as was terrible to hear; praying 
that she might never have a child, or if she had, that 
it might live to return that scorn and contempt upon 
her which she had shown to him: that she might feel 
how sharper than a serpent's tooth it was to have a 
thankless child. And Gonerill's husband, the duke of 
Albany, beginning to excuse himself for any share 
which Lear might suppose he had in the unkindness, 
Lear would not hear him out, but in a rage ordered 
his horses to be saddled, and set out with his followers 
for the abode of Eegan, his other daughter. And Lear 
thought to himself how small the fault of Cordelia (if 
it was a fault) now appeared, in comparison with her 
sister's, and he wept; and then he was ashamed that 
such a creature as Gonerill should have so much power 
over his manhood as to make him weep. 

Kegan and her husband were keeping their court 
in great pomp and state at their palace; and Lear dis- 
patched his servant Caius with letters to his daughter, 
that she might be prepared for his reception, while 
he and his train followed after. But it seems that 
Gonerill had been beforehand with him, sending letters 
also to Kegan, accusing her father of waywardness and 



KING LEAR. 141 

ill humours, and advising her not to receive so great a 
train as he was bringing with him. This messenger 
arrived at the same time with Caius, and Caius and he 
met: and who should it be but Cams' s old enemy the 
steward, whom he had formerly tripped up by the 
heels for his saucy behaviour to Lear. Caius not 
liking the fellow's look, and suspecting what he came 
for, began to revile him, and challenged him to fight, 
which the fellow refusing, Caius, in a fit of honest 
passion, beat him soundly, as such a mischief-maker and 
carrier of wicked messages deserved-, which coming to 
the ears of Eegan and her husband, they ordered Caius 
to be put in the stocks, though he was a messenger 
from the king her father, and in that character demanded 
the highest respect: so that the first thing the king 
saw when he entered the castle, was his faithful servant 
Caius sitting in tjiat disgraceful situation. 

This was but a bad omen of the reception which 
he was to expect; but a worse followed, when upon 
inquiry for his daughter and her husband, he was told 
they were weary with travelling all night, and could 
not see him; and when lastly, upon his insisting in a 
positive and angry manner to see them, they came to 
greet him, whom should he see in their company but 
the hated Gonerill, who had come to tell her own story, 
and set her sister against the king her father! 

This sight much moved the old man, and still more 
to see Eegan take her by the hand; and he asked 
Gonerill if she was not ashamed to look .upon his old 
white beard. And Eegan advised him to go home 
again with Gonerill, and live with her peaceably, dis- 
missing half of his attendants , and to ask her forgive- 
ness; for he was old and wanted discretion, and must 



142 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

be ruled and led by persons that had more discretion 
than himself. And Lear showed how preposterous that 
would sound, if he were to down on his knees, and beg 
of his own daughter for food and raiment, and he 
argued against such an unnatural dependence, declaring 
his resolution never to return with her, but to stay- 
where he was with Regan, he and his hundred knights ; 
for he said that she had not forgot the half of the 
kingdom which he had endowed her with, and that her 
eyes were not fierce like Gonerill's, but mild and kind. 
And he said that rather than return to Gonerill, with 
half his train cut off, he would go over to France, and 
beg a wretched pension of the king there, who had 
married his youngest daughter without a portion. 

But he was mistaken in expecting kinder treatment 
of Regan than he had experienced from her sister 
Gonerill. As if willing to outdo her sister in unfilial. 
behaviour, she declared that she thought fifty knights 
too many to wait upon him: that five-and- twenty were 
enough. Then Lear, nigh heart-broken, turned to 
Gonerill, and said that he would go back with her, for 
her fifty doubled five-and-twenty , and so her love was 
twice as much as Regan's. But Gonerill excused herself, 
and said, What need of so many as five-and-twenty? 
or even ten? or five? when he might be waited upon 
by her servants, or her sister's servants? So these two 
wicked daughters, as if they strove to exceed each 
other in cruelty to their old father who had been so 
good to them, by little and little would have abated 
him of all his train, all respect (little enough for him 
that once commanded a kingdom) , which was left him 
to show that he had once been a king! Not that a 
splendid train is essential to happiness, but from a king 



KING LEAR. 143 

to a beggar is a hard change, from commanding millions 
to be without one attendant; and it was the ingratitude 
in his daughters' denying it, more" than" what he would 
suffer by the want of it, which pierced this poor king 
to the heart; insomuch, that with this double ill-usage, 
and vexation for having so foolishly given away a 
kingdom, his wits began to be unsettled, and while he 
said he knew not what, he vowed revenge against 
those unnatural hags, and to make examples of them 
that should be a terror to the earth! 

While he was thus idly threatening what his weak 
arm could never execute, night came on, and a loud 
storm of thunder and lightning with rain; and his 
daughters still persisting in their resolution not to admit 
his followers, he called for his horses, and chose rather 
to encounter the utmost fury of the storm abroad, 
than stay under j;he same roof with these ungrateful 
daughters: and they, saying that the injuries which 
wilful men procure to themselves are their just punish- 
ment, suffered him to go in that condition and shut 
their doors upon him. 

The winds were high, and the rain and storm in- 
creased, when the old man sallied forth to combat with 
the elements, less sharp than his daughters' unkindness. 
For many miles about there was scarce a bush; and 
there upon a heath, exposed to the fury of the storm 
in a dark night, did king Lear wander out, and defy 
the winds and the thunder: and he bid the winds to 
blow the earth into the sea, or swell the waves of the 
sea till they drowned the earth, that no token might 
remain of any such ungrateful animal as man. The 
old king was now left with no other companion than 
the poor fool, who still abided with him, with his 



144 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

merry conceits striving to outjest misfortune, saying, it 
was but a naughty night to swim in, and truly the 
king had better go in and ask his daughter's bless- 
ing: - 

But he that has a little tiny wit, 
With heigh ho , the wind and the rain I 

Must make content with his fortunes fit , 
Though the rain it raineth every day : 

and swearing it was a brave night to cool a lady's 
pride. 

Thus poorly accompanied, this once great monarch 
was found by his ever-faithful servant the good earl of 
Kent, now transformed to Caius, who ever followed 
close at his side, though the king did not know him to 
be the earl; and he said, "Alas! sir, are you here? 
creatures that love night, love not such nights as these. 
This dreadful storm has driven the beasts to their 
hiding places. Man's nature cannot endure the afflic- 
tion or the fear." And Lear rebuked him and said, 
these lesser evils were not felt, where a greater malaay 
was fixed. When the mind is at ease, the body has 
leisure to be delicate; but the tempest in his mind did 
take all feeling else from his senses, but of that which 
beat at his heart. And he spoke of filial ingratitude, 
and said it was all one as if the mouth should tear the 
hand for lifting food to it; for parents were hands and 
food and everything to children. 

But the good Caius still persisting in his entreaties 
that the king would not stay out in the open air, at 
last persuaded him to enter a little wretched hovel 
which stood upon the heath, where the fool first entering, 
suddenly ran back terrified, saying that he had seen a 
spirit. But upon examination this spirit proved to be 



KING LEAR. 145 

nothing more than a poor Bedlam beggar, who had 
crept into this deserted hovel for shelter, and with his 
talk about devils frighted the fool, one of those poor 
lunatics who are either mad, or feign to be so, the 
better to extort charity from the compassionate country 
people, who go about the country, calling themselves 
poor Tom and poor Turlygood, saying "Who gives 
anything to poor Tom?" sticking pins and nails and 
sprigs of rosemary into their arms to make them bleed-, 
and with such horrible actions, partly by prayers, and 
partly with lunatic curses, they move or terrify the 
ignorant country-folks into giving them alms. This 
poor fellow was such a one-, and the king seeing him 
in so wretched a plight, with nothing but a blanket 
about his loins to cover his nakedness, could not be 
persuaded but that the fellow was some father who 
had given all away to his daughters, and brought him- 
self to that pass: for nothing he thought could bring a 
man to such wretchedness but the having unkind 
daughters. 

And from this and many such wild speeches which 
he uttered, the good Caius plainly perceived that he 
was not in his perfect mind, but that his daughters' ill 
usage had really made him go mad. And now the 
loyalty of this worthy earl of Kent showed itself in 
more essential services than he had hitherto found 
opportunity to perform. For with the assistance of 
some of the king's attendants who remained loyal, he 
had the person of his royal master removed at day- 
break to the castle of Dover, where his own friends 
and influence, as earl of Kent, chiefly lay; and him- 
self embarking for France, hastened to the court of 
Cordelia, and did there in such moving terms represent 

Tales from Shakspeare. 10 



146 TALES PROM SHAKSPEARE. 

the pitiful condition of her royal father, and set out in 
such lively colours the inhumanity of her sisters, that 
this good and loving child with many tears besought 
the king her husband, that he would give her leave to 
embark for England, with a sufficient power to subdue 
these cruel daughters and their husbands, and restore 
the old king her father to his throne; which being 
granted, she set forth, and with a royal army landed 
at Dover. 

Lear having by some chance escaped from the 
guardians which the good earl of Kent had put over 
him to take care of him in his lunacy, was found by 
some of Cordelia's train, wandering about the fields 
near Dover, in a pitiable condition, stark mad, and 
singing aloud to himself, with a crowh"upon his head 
which he had made of straw, and nettles, and other 
wild weeds that he had picked up in the cornfields. 
By the advice of the physicians, Cordelia, though 
earnestly desirous of seeing her father, was prevailed 
upon to put off the meeting, till by sleep and the 
operation of herbs which they gave him, he should be 
restored to greater composure. By the aid of these 
skilful physicians, to whom Cordelia promised all her 
gold and jewels for the recovery of the old king, Lear 
was soon in a condition to see his daughter. 

A tender sight it was to see the meeting between 
this father and daughter; to see the struggles between 
the joy of this poor old king at beholding again his 
once darling child, and the shame at receiving such 
filial kindness from her whom he had cast off for so 
small a fault in his displeasure; both these passions 
struggling with the remains of his malady, which in 
his half-crazed brain sometimes made him that he 



KING LEAR. 147 

scarce remembered where he was, or who it was that 
so kindly kissed him and spoke to him: and then he 
would beg the standers-by not to laugh at him, if he 
were mistaken in thinking this lady to be his daughter 
Cordelia! And then to see him fall on his knees to 
beg pardon of his child; and she, good lady, kneeling 
all the while to ask a blessing of him, and telling him 
that it did not become him to kneel, but it was her 
duty, for she was his child, his true and very child 
Cordelia! and she kissed him (as she said) to kiss 
away all her sisters' unkindness, and said that they 
might be ashamed of themselves, to turn their old kind 
father with his white beard out into the cold air, when 
her enemy's dog, though it had bit her (as she prettily 
expressed it), should have stayed by her fire such a 
night as that, and warmed himself. And she told her 
father how she had, come from France with purpose to 
bring him assistance; and he said that she must forget 
and forgive, for he was old and foolish, and did not 
know what he did; but that to be sure she had great 
cause not to love him, but her sisters had none. And 
Cordelia said that she had no cause no more than they 
had. 

So we will leave this old king in the protection of 
this dutiful and loving child, where, by the help of 
sleep and medicine, she and her physicians at length 
succeeded in winding up the untuned and jarring 
senses which the cruelty of his other daughters had so 
violently shaken. Let us return to say a word or two 
about those cruel daughters. 

These monsters of ingratitude, who had been so 
false to their old father, could not be expected to 
prove more faithful to their own husbands. They soon 

10* 



148 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

grew tired of paying even the appearance of duty and 
affection, and in an open way showed they had fixed 
their loves upon another. It happened that the object 
of their guilty loves was the same. It was Edmund, 
a natural son of the late earl of Gloucester, who by 
his treacheries had succeeded in disinheriting his 
brother Edgar, the lawful heir, from his earldom, and 
by his wicked practices was now earl himself; a 
wicked man, and a fit object for the love of such 
wicked creatures as Gonerill and Regan. It falling 
out about this time that the duke of Cornwall, Regan's 
husband, died, Regan immediately declared her inten- 
tion of wedding this earl of Gloucester, which rousing 
the jealousy of her sister, to whom as well as to 
Regan this wicked earl had at sundry times professed 
love, Gonerill found means to make away with her 
sister by poison; but being detected in her practices, 
and imprisoned by her husband the duke of Albany 
for this deed, and for her guilty passion for the earl 
which had come to his ears , she , in a fit of disap- 
pointed love and rage, shortly put an end to her own 
life. Thus the justice of Heaven at last overtook these 
wicked daughters. 

While the eyes of all men were upon this event, 
admiring the justice displayed in their deserved deaths, 
the same eyes were suddenly taken off from this sight 
to admire at the mysterious ways of the same power 
in the melancholy fate of the young and virtuous 
daughter, the lady Cordelia, whose good deeds did 
seem to deserve a more fortunate conclusion: but it is 
an awful truth, that innocence and piety are not al- 
ways successful in this world. The forces which 
Gonerill and Regan had sent out under the command 



KING LEAR. 149 

of the bad earl of Gloucester were victorious, and Cor- 
delia, by the practices of this wicked earl, who did not 
like that any should stand between him and the throne, 
ended her life in prison. Thus, Heaven took this in- 
nocent lady to itself in her young years, after showing 
her to the world an illustrious example of filial duty. 
Lear did not long survive this kind child. 

Before he died, the good earl of Kent, who had 
still attended his old master's steps from the first of 
his daughters' ill usage to this sad period of his decay, 
tried to make him understand that it was he who had 
followed him under the name of Caius; but Lear's 
care-crazed brain at that time could not comprehend 
how that could be, or how Kent and Caius could be 
the same person: so Kent thought it needless to trouble 
him with explanations at such a time; and Lear soon 
after expiring, this faithful servant to the king, between 
age and grief for his old master's vexations, soon fol- 
lowed him to the grave. 

How the judgment of Heaven overtook the bad 
earl of Gloucester, whose treasons were discovered, 
and himself slain in single combat with his brother, 
the lawful earl-, and how Gonerill's husband, the duke 
of Albany, who was innocent of the death of Cordelia, 
and had never encouraged his lady in her wicked pro- 
ceedings against her father, ascended the throne of 
Britain after the death of Lear, is needless here to 
narrate; Lear and his Three Daughters being dead, 
whose adventures alone concern our story. 



50 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



MACBETH. 



When Duncan the Meek reigned king of Scotland, 
there lived a great thane, or lord, called Macbeth. This 
Macbeth was a near kinsman to the king, and in great 
esteem at court for his valour and conduct in the wars-, 
an example of which he had lately given, in defeating 
a rebel army assisted by the troops of Norway in ter- 
rible numbers. 

The two Scottish generals, Macbeth and Banquo, 
returning victorious from this great battle, their way 
lay over a blasted heath, where they were stopped by 
the strange appearance of three figures like women, 
except that they had beards, and their withered skins 
and wild attire made them look not like any earthly 
creatures. Macbeth first addressed them, when they, 
seemingly offended, laid each one her choppy finger 
upon her skinny lips, in token of silence; and the first 
of them saluted Macbeth with the title of thane of 
Glamis. The general was not a little startled to find 
himself known by such creatures; but how much more, 
when the second of them followed up that salute by 
giving him the title of thane of Cawdor, to which 
honour he had no pretensions; and again the third bid 
him "All hail! king that shalt be hereafter!" Such a 
prophetic greeting might well amaze him, who knew 
that while the king's sons lived he could not hope to 



MACBETH. 151 

succeed to the throne. Then turning to Banquo, they 
pronounced him, in a sort of riddling terms, to be lesser 
than Macbeth and greater! not so happy , but much hap- 
pier! and prophesied that though he should never reign, 
yet his sons after him should be kings in Scotland. 
They then turned into air and vanished; by which the 
generals knew them to be the weird sisters or witches. 

While they stood pondering on the strangeness of 
this adventure, there arrived certain messengers from 
the king, who were empowered by him to confer upon 
Macbeth the dignity of thane of Cawdor: an event so 
miraculously corresponding with the prediction of the 
witches astonished Macbeth, and he stood wrapped in 
amazement, unable to make reply to the messengers; 
and in that point of time swelling hopes arose in his 
mind that the prediction of the third witch might in 
like manner have its accomplishment, and that he should 
one day reign king in Scotland. 

Turning to Banquo, he said, "Do you not hope that 
your children shall be kings, when what the witches 
promised to me has so wonderfully come to pass?" 
"That hope," answered the general, "might enkindle 
you to aim at the throne; but oftentimes these ministers 
of darkness tell us truths in little things, to betray us 
into deeds of greatest consequence." 

But the wicked suggestions of the witches had sunk 
too deep into the mind of Macbeth to allow him to 
attend to the warnings of the good Banquo. From 
that time he bent all his thoughts how to compass the 
throne of Scotland. 

Macbeth had a wife, to whom he communicated the 
strange prediction of the weird sisters, and its partial 
accomplishment. She was a bad ambitious woman, 



152 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

and so as her husband and herself could arrive at great- 
ness, she cared not much by what means. She spurred 
on the reluctant purpose of Macbeth, who felt com- 
punction at the thoughts of blood, and did not cease 
to represent the murder of the king as a step absolutely 
necessary to the fulfilment of the flattering prophecy. 

It happened at this time that the king, who out of 
his royal condescension would oftentimes visit his prin- 
cipal nobility upon gracious terms, came to Macbeth's 
house, attended by his two sons, Malcolm and Donal- 
bain, and a numerous train of thanes and attendants, 
the more to honour Macbeth for the triumphal success 
of his wars. 

The castle of Macbeth was pleasantly situated, and 
the air about it was sweet and wholesome, which ap- 
peared by the nests which the martlet, or swallow, had 
built under all the jutting friezes and buttresses of the 
building, wherever it found a place of advantage; for 
where those birds most breed and haunt, the air is 
observed to be delicate. The king entered well-pleased 
with the place, and not less so with the attentions and 
respect of his honoured hostess, lady Macbeth, who 
had the art of covering treacherous purposes with 
smiles; and could look like the innocent flower, while 
she was indeed the serpent under it. 

The king being tired with his journey, went early 
to bed, and in his state-room two grooms of his chamber 
(as was the custom) slept beside him. He had been 
unusually pleased with his reception, and had made 
presents before he retired to his principal officers; and 
among the rest, had sent a rich diamond to lady Mac- 
beth, greeting her by the name of his most kind 



MACBETH. 153 

Now was the middle of night, when over half the 
world nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse 
men's minds asleep, and none but the wolf and the 
murderer is abroad. This was the time when lady- 
Macbeth waked to plot the murder of the king. She 
would not have undertaken a deed so abhorrent to her 
sex, but that she feared her husband's nature, that it 
was too full of the milk of human kindness, to do a 
contrived murder. She knew him to be ambitious, but 
withal to be scrupulous, and not yet prepared for that 
height of crime which commonly in the end accompanies 
inordinate ambition. She had won him to consent to 
the murder, but she doubted his resolution; and she 
feared that the natural tenderness of his disposition 
(more humane than her own) would come between, and 
defeat the purpose. So with her own hands armed 
with a dagger, she approached the king's bed; having 
taken care to ply the grooms of his chamber so with 
wine, that they slept intoxicated, and careless of their 
charge. There lay Duncan in a sound sleep after the 
fatigues of his journey, and as she viewed him earnestly, 
there was something in his face, as he slept, which 
resembled her own father; and she had not the courage 
to proceed. 

She returned to confer with her husband. His re- 
solution had begun to stagger. He considered that 
there were strong reasons against the deed. In the first 
place, he was not only a subject, but a near kinsman 
to the king; and he had been his host and entertainer 
that day, whose duty, by the laws of hospitality, it was 
to shut the door against his murderers, not bear the 
knife himself. Then he considered how just and merci- 
ful a king this Duncan had been, how clear of offence 



154 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARB. 

to his subjects, how loving to his nobility, and in par- 
ticular to him; that such kings are the peculiar care 
of Heaven, and their subjects doubly bound to revenge 
their deaths. Besides, by the favours of the king, 
Macbeth stood high in the opinion of all sorts of men, 
and how would those honours be stained by the repu- 
tation of so foul a murder! 

In these conflicts of the mind lady Macbeth found 
her husband inclining to the better part, and resolving 
to proceed no further. But she being a woman not 
easily shaken from her evil purpose, began to pour in 
at his ears words which infused a portion of her own 
spirit into his mind, assigning reason upon reason why 
he should not shrink from what he had undertaken; 
how easy the deed was; how soon it would be over; 
and how the action of one short night would give to 
all their nights and days to come sovereign sway and 
royalty! Then she threw contempt on his change of 
purpose, and accused him of fickleness and cowardice; 
and declared that she had given suck, and knew how 
tender it was to love the babe that milked her; but she 
would, while it was smiling in her face, have plucked 
it from her breast, and dashed its brains out, if she 
had so sworn to do it, as he had sworn to perform that 
murder. Then she added, how practicable it was to 
lay the guilt of the deed upon the drunken sleepy 
grooms. And with the valour of her tongue she so 
chastised his sluggish resolutions, that he once more 
summoned up courage to the bloody business. 

So, taking the dagger in his hand, he softly stole 
in the dark to the room where Duncan lay; and as he 
went, he thought he saw another dagger in the air, 
with the handle towards him, and on the blade and at 



MACBETH. 155 

the point of it drops of blood; but when he tried to 
grasp at it, it was nothing but air, a mere phantasm 
proceeding from his own hot and oppressed brain and 
the business he had in hand. 

Getting rid of this fear, he entered the king's room, 
whom he dispatched with one stroke of his dagger. 
Just as he had done the murder, one of the grooms, 
who slept in the chamber, laughed in his sleep, and the 
other cried, "Murder," which woke them both; but they 
said a short prayer; one of them said, "God bless us!" 
and the other answered "Amen;" and addressed them- 
selves to sleep again. Macbeth, who stood listening 
to them, tried to say, "Amen," when the fellow said, 
"God bless us!" but, though he had most need of a 
blessing, the word stuck in his throat, and he could 
not pronounce it. 

Again he thought he heard a voice which cried, 
"Sleep no more': Macbeth doth murder sleep, the in- 
nocent sleep, that nourishes life." Still it cried, "Sleep 
no more," to all the house. "Glamis hath murdered 
sleep, and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no more, Mac- 
beth shall sleep no more." 

With such horrible imaginations Macbeth returned 
to his listening wife, who began to think he had failed 
of his purpose, and that the deed was somehow frustrated. 
He came in so distracted a state, that she reproached 
him with his want of firmness, and sent him to wash 
his hands of the blood which stained them, while she 
took his dagger, with purpose to stain the cheeks of 
the grooms with blood, to make it seem their guilt 

Morning came, and with it the discovery of the 
murder, which could not be concealed; and though 
Macbeth and his lady made great show of grief, and 



156 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

the proofs against the grooms (the dagger being pro- 
duced against them and their faces smeared with blood) 
were sufficiently strong, yet the entire suspicion fell 
upon Macbeth, whose inducements to such a deed were 
so much more forcible than such poor silly grooms 
could be supposed to have; and Duncan's two sons 
fled. Malcolm, the eldest, sought for refuge in the 
English court-, and the youngest, Donalbain, made his 
escape to Ireland. 

The king's sons, who should have succeeded him, 
having thus vacated the throne, Macbeth as next heir 
was crowned king, and thus the prediction of the weird 
sisters was literally accomplished. 

Though placed so high, Macbeth and his queen 
could not forget the prophecy of the weird sisters, that, 
though Macbeth should be king, yet not his children, 
but the children of Banquo, should be kings after him. 
The thought of this, and that they had defiled their 
hands with blood, and done so great crimes, only to 
place the posterity of Banquo upon the throne, so 
rankled within them, that they determined to put to 
death both Banquo and his son, to make void the pre- 
dictions of the weird sisters, which in their own case 
had been so remarkably brought to pass. 

For this purpose they made a great supper, to 
which they invited all the chief thanes-, and, among 
the rest, with marks of particular respect, Banquo and 
his son Fleance were invited. The way by which 
Banquo was to pass to the palace at night, was beset 
by murderers appointed by Macbeth, who stabbed Ban- 
quo; but in the scuffle Fleance escaped. From that 
Fleance descended a race of monarchs who afterwards 
filled the Scottish throne, ending with James the Sixth 



MACBETH. 



157 



of Scotland and the First of England, under whom the 
two crowns of England and Scotland were united. 

At supper, the queen, whose manners were in the 
highest degree affable and royal, played the hostess 
with a gracefulness and attention which conciliated 
every one present, and Macbeth discoursed freely with 
his thanes and nobles , saying , that all that was honour- 
able in the country was under his roof, if he had but 
his good friend Banquo present, whom yet he hoped 
he should rather have to chide for neglect, than to 
lament for any mischance. Just at these words the 
ghost of Banquo , whom he had caused to be murdered, 
entered the room, and placed himself on the chair 
which Macbeth was about to occuppy. Though Mac- 
beth was a bold man, and one that could have faced 
the devil without trembling, at this horrible sight his 
cheeks turned white with fear, and he stood quite un- 
manned with his' eyes fixed upon the ghost. His queen 
and all the nobles, who saw nothing, but perceived him 
gazing (as they thought) upon an empty chair, took it 
for a fit of distraction; and she reproached him, whis- 
pering that it was but the same fancy which made him 
see the dagger in the air, when he was about to kill 
Duncan. But Macbeth continued to see the ghost, and 
gave no heed to all they could say, while he addressed 
it with distracted words, yet so significant, that his 
queen, fearing the dreadful secret would be disclosed, 
in great haste dismissed the guests, excusing the in- 
firmity of Macbeth as a disorder he was often troubled 
with. 

To such dreadful fancies Macbeth was subject. His 
queen and he had their sleeps afflicted with terrible 
dreams, and the blood of Banquo troubled them not 



158 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

more than the escape ofFleance, whom now they looked 
upon as father to a line of kings, who should keep their 
posterity out of the throne. With these miserable 
thoughts they found no peace , and Macbeth determined 
once more to seek out the weird sisters , and know from 
them the worst. 

He sought them in a cave upon the heath, where 
they, who knew by foresight of his coming, were 
engaged in preparing their dreadful charms, by which 
they conjured up infernal spirits to reveal to them 
futurity. Their horrid ingredients were toads, bats, 
and serpents, the eye of a newt, and the tongue of a 
dog, the leg of a lizard, and the wing of the night 
owl, the scale of a dragon, the tooth of a wolf, the 
maw of the ravenous salt sea shark, the mummy of a 
witch, the root of the poisonous hemlock (this to have 
effect must be digged in the dark), the gall of a goat, 
and the liver of a Jew, with slips of the yew tree that 
roots itself in graves, and the finger of a dead child: 
all these were set on to boil in a great kettle, or cal- 
dron, which, as fast as it grew too hot, was cooled 
with a baboon's blood: to these they poured in the 
blood of a sow that had eaten her young, and they 
threw into the flame the grease that had sweaten from 
a murderer's gibbet. By these charms they bound the 
infernal spirits to answer their questions. 

It was demanded of Macbeth, whether he would 
have his doubts resolved by them, or by their masters, 
the spirits. He, nothing daunted by the dreadful cere- 
monies which he saw, boldly answered, "Where are 
they? let me see them." And they called the spirits, 
which were three. And the first arose in the likeness 
of an armed head, and he called Macbeth by name, 



MACBETH 159 

and bid him beware of the thane of Fife; for which 
caution Macbeth thanked him; for Macbeth had enter- 
tained a jealousy of Macduff, the thane of Fife. 

And the second spirit arose in the likeness of a 
bloody child, and he called Macbeth by name, and bid 
him have no fear, but laugh to scom the power of man, 
for none of woman born should have power to hurt 
him; and he advised him to be bloody, bold, and re- 
solute. "Then live, Macduff!" cried the king; "what 
need I fear of thee? but yet I will make assurance 
doubly sure. Thou shalt not live; that I may tell 
pale-hearted Fear it lies, and sleep in spite of 
thunder." 

That spirit being dismissed, a third arose in the 
form of a child crowned, with a tree in his hand. He 
called Macbeth by name, and comforted him against 
conspiracies, saying, that he should never be van- 
quished, until the wood of Birnam to Dunsinane Hill 
should come against him. "Sweet bodements! good!" 
cried Macbeth; "who can unfix the forest, and move it 
from its earth-bound roots? I see I shall live the usual 
period of man's life, and not be cut off by a violent 
death. But my heart throbs to know one thing. Tell 
me, if your art can tell so much, if Banquo's issue 
shall ever reign in this kingdom?" Here the caldron 
sunk into the ground, and a noise of music was heard, 
and eight shadows, like kings, passed by Macbeth, and 
Banquo last, who bore a glass which showed the figures 
of many more, and Banquo all "bloody smiled upon 
Macbeth, and pointed to them; by which Macbeth 
knew, that these were the posterity of Banquo, who 
should reign after him in Scotland; and the witches, 
with a sound of soft music, and with dancing, making 



160 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

a show of duty and welcome to Macbeth, vanished. 
And from this time the thoughts of Macbeth were all 
bloody and dreadful. 

The first thing he heard when he got out of the 
witches' cave, was that Macduff, thane of Fife, had 
fled to England, to join the army which was forming 
against him under Malcolm, the eldest son of the late 
king, with intent to displace Macbeth, and set Mal- 
colm, the right heir, upon the throne. Macbeth, stung 
with rage, set upon the castle of Macduff, and put his 
wife and children, whom the thane had left behind, to 
the sword, and extended the slaughter to all who 
claimed the least relationship to Macduff. 

These and such-like deeds alienated the minds of 
all his chief nobility from him. Such as could, fled to 
join with Malcolm and Macduff, who were now ap- 
proaching with a powerful army which they had raised 
in England-, and the rest secretly wished success to 
their arms, though for fear of Macbeth they could take 
no active part. His recruits went on slowly. Every- 
body hated the tyrant, nobody loved or honoured him; 
but all suspected him, and he began to envy the con- 
dition of Duncan, whom he had murdered, who slept 
soundly in his grave, against whom treason had done 
its worst: steel nor poison, domestic malice nor foreign 
levies, could hurt him any longer. 

While these things were acting, the queen, who 
had been the sole partner in his wickedness, in whose 
bosom he could sometimes seek a momentary repose 
from those terrible dreams which afflicted them both 
nightly, died, it is supposed, by her own hands, un- 
able to bear the remorse of guilt, and public hate; by 
which event he was left alone, without a soul to love 



MACBETH. 161 

or care for Lim, or a friend to whom he could confide 
his wicked purposes. 

He grew careless of life, and wished for death; but 
the near approach of Malcolm's army roused in him 
what remained of his ancient courage, and he deter- 
mined to die (as he expressed it), "with armour on his 
back." Besides this, the hollow promises of the witches 
had filled him with a false confidence, and he remem- 
bered the sayings of the spirits, that none of woman 
born was to hurt him, and that he was never to be 
vanquished till Birnam wood should come to Dunsinane, 
which he thought could never be. So he shut himself 
up in his castle, whose impregnable strength was such 
as defied a siege: here he sullenly waited the approach 
of Malcolm. When, upon a day, there came a mes- 
senger to him, pale and shaking with fear, almost un- 
able to report that which he had seen; for he averred, 
that as he stood'upon his watch on the hill, he looked 
towards Birnam, and to his thinking the wood began 
to move! "Liar and slave," cried Macbeth; "if thou 
speakest false, thou shalt hang alive upon the next 
tree, till famine end thee. If thy tale be true, I care 
not if thou dost as much by me:" for Macbeth now 
began to faint in resolution, and to doubt the equi- 
vocal speeches of the spirits. He was not to fear, till 
Birnam wood should come to Dunsinane; and now a 
wood did move! "However," said he, "if this which 
he avouches be true, let us arm and out There is no 
flying hence, nor staying here. I begin to be weary 
of the sun, and wish my life at an end." With these 
desperate speeches he sallied forth upon the besiegers, 
who had now come up to the castle. 
Tales from Shakipeare. H 



162 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

The strange appearance, which had given the mes- 
senger an idea of a wood moving is easily solved. 
When the besieging army marched through the wood 
of Birnam, Malcolm, like a skilful general, instructed 
his soldiers to hew down every one a bough and bear 
it before him, by way of concealing the true numbers 
of his host. This marching of the soldiers with boughs 
had at a distance the appearance which had frightened 
the messenger. Thus were the words of the spirit 
brought to pass, in a sense different from that in which 
Macbeth had understood them, and one great hold of 
his confidence was gone. 

And now a severe skirmishing took place, in which 
Macbeth, though feebly supported by those who called 
themselves his friends, but in reality hated the tyrant 
and inclined to the party of Malcolm and Macduff, yet 
fought with the extreme of rage and valour, cutting to 
pieces all who were opposed to him, till he came to 
where Macduff was fighting. Seeing Macduff, and re- 
membering the caution of the spirit who had counselled 
him to avoid Macduff above all men, he would have 
turned, but Macduff, who had been seeking him through 
the whole fight, opposed his turning, and a fierce con- 
test ensued; Macduff giving him many foul reproaches 
for the murder of his wife and children. Macbeth, 
whose soul was charged enough with blood of that 
family already, would still have declined the combat; 
but Macduff still urged him to it, calling him tyrant, 
murderer, hell-hound, and villain. 

Then Macbeth remembered the words of the spirit, 
how none of woman born should hurt him; and smiling 
confidently he said to Macduff, "Thou losest thy labour, 
Macduff. As easily thou mayest impress the air with 



MACBETH. 163 

thy sword, as make me vulnerable. 1 bear a charmed 
life, which must not yield to one of woman born." 

"Despair thy charm," said Macduff, "and let that 
lying spirit whom thou hast served, tell thee, that 
Macduff was never born of woman, never as the or- 
dinary manner of men is to be born, but was untimely 
taken from his mother." 

"Accursed be the tongue which tells me so," said 
the trembling Macbeth, who felt his last hold of con- 
fidence give way, "and let never man in future believe 
the lying equivocations of witches and juggling spirits, 
who deceive us in words which have double senses, 
and while they keep their promise literally, disappoint 
our hopes with a different meaning. I will not fight 
with thee." 

"Then live!" said the scornful Macduff; "we will 
have a show of thee, as men show monsters, and a 
painted board, ori which shall be written, 'Here men 
may see the tyrant!'" 

"Never," said Macbeth, whose courage returned 
with despair; "I will not live to kiss the ground before 
young Malcolm's feet, and to be baited with the curses 
of the rabble. Though Birnam wood be come to Dun- 
sinane, and thou opposed to me, who wast never born 
of woman, yet will I try the last." With these frantic 
words he threw himself upon Macduff, who, after a 
severe struggle, in the end overcame him, and cutting 
off his head, made a present of it to the young and 
lawful king, Malcolm; who took upon him tie govern- 
ment which, by the machinations of the usurper, he 
had so long been deprived of, and ascended the throne 
of Duncan the Meek amid the acclamations of the 
nobles and the people. 

11* 



164 TALES PROM SHAKSPEARB. 



ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 



Bertram, count of Rossilion, had newly come to 
his title and estate, by the death of his father. The 
king of France loved the father of Bertram, and when 
he heard of his death, he sent for his son to come im- 
mediately to his royal court in Paris, intending, for 
the friendship he bore the late count, to grace young 
Bertram with his especial favour and protection. 

Bertram was living with his mother, the widowed 
countess, when Lafeu, an old lord of the French 
court, came to conduct him to the king. The king 
of France was an absolute monarch, and the invitation 
to court was in the form of a royal mandate, or posi- 
tive command, which no subject, of what high dignity 
soever, might disobey; therefore though the countess, 
in parting with this dear son, seemed a second time to 
bury her husband, whose loss she had so lately mourned, 
yet she dared not to keep him a single day, but gave 
instant orders for his departure. Lafeu, who came to 
fetch him, tried to comfort the countess for the loss of 
her late lord, and her son's sudden absence; and he 
said, in a courtier's flattering manner, that the king 
was so kind a prince, she would find in his majesty a 
husband, and that he would be a father to her son; 
meaning only, that the good king would befriend the 
fortunes of Bertram. Lafeu told the countess that the 



165 

king had fallen into a sad malady, which was pro- 
nounced by his physicians to be incurable. The lady 
expressed great sorrow on hearing this account of the 
king's ill health, and said, she wished the father of 
Helena (a young gentlewoman who was present in at- 
tendance upon her) were living, for that she doubted 
not he could have cured his majesty of his disease. 
And she told Lafeu something of the history of Helena, 
saying she was the only daughter of the famous phy- 
sician Gerard de Narbon, and that he had recommended 
his daughter to her care when he was dying, so that 
since his death she had taken Helena under her pro- 
tection; then the countess praised the virtuous dispo- 
sition and excellent qualities of Helena, saying she 
inherited these virtues from her worthy father. While 
she was speaking, Helena wept in sad and mournful 
silence, which made the countess gently reprove her 
for too much grieving for her father's death. 

Bertram now bade his mother farewell. The count- 
ess parted with this dear son with tears and many 
blessings, and commended him to the care of Lafeu, 
saying, "Good my lord, advise him, for he is an un- 
seasoned courtier." 

Bertram's last words were spoken to Helena, but 
they were words of mere civility, wishing her hap- 
piness; and he concluded his short farewell to her with 
saying, "Be comfortable to my mother, your mistress, 
and make much of her." 

Helena had long loved Bertram, and when she 
wept in sad and mournful silence, the tears she shed 
were not for Gerard de Narbon. Helena loved her 
father, but in the present feeling of a deeper love, the 
object of which she was about to lose, she had for- 



166 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

gotten the very form and features of her dead father, 
her imagination presenting no image to her mind but 
Bertram's. 

Helena had long loved Bertram, yet she always re- 
membered that he was the count of Rossilion, descended 
from the most ancient family in France. She of humble 
birth. Her parents of no note at all. His ancestors all 
noble. And therefore she looked up to the high-born 
Bertram as to her master and to her dear lord, and 
dared not form any wish but to live his servant, and 
so living to die his vassal. So great the distance seemed 
to her between his height of dignity and her lowly for- 
tunes, that she would say, "It were all one that I 
should love a bright peculiar star, and think to wed 
it, Bertram is so far above me." 

Bertram's absence filled her eyes with tears, and 
her heart with sorrow, for though she loved without 
hope, yet it was a pretty comfort to her to see him 
every hour, and Helena would sit and look upon his 
dark eye, his arched brow, and the curls of his fine hair, 
till she seemed to draw his portrait on the tablet of her 
heart, that heart too capable of retaining the memory of 
every line in the features of that loved face. 

Gerard de Narbon, when he died, left her no other 
portion than some prescriptions of rare and well-proved 
virtue, which by deep study and long experience in 
medicine he had collected as sovereign and almost in- 
fallible remedies. Among the rest, there was one set 
down as an approved medicine for the disease under 
which Lafeu said the king at that time languished: and 
when Helena heard of the king's complaint, she, who 
till now had been so humble and so hopeless, formed 
an ambitious project in her mind to go herself to Paris, 



167 

and undertake the cure of the king. But though Helena 
was the possessor of this choice prescription, it was un- 
likely, as the king as well as his physicians was of 
opinion that his disease was incurable, that they would 
give credit to a poor unlearned virgin, if she should 
offer to perform a cure. The firm hopes that Helena 
had of succeeding, if she might be permitted to make 
the trial, seemed more than even her father's skill war- 
ranted, though he was the most famous physician of 
his time; for she felt a strong faith that this good me- 
dicine was sanctified by all the luckiest stars in heaven, 
to be the legacy that should advance her fortune, even 
to the high dignity of being count Rossilion's wife. 

Bertram had not been long gone, when the countess 
was informed by her steward, that he had overheard 
Helena talking to herself, and that he understood from 
some words she uttered, she was in love with Bertram, 
and thought of following him to Paris. The- countess 
dismissed the steward with thanks, and desired him to 
tell Helena she wished to speak with her. What she 
had just heard of Helena brought the remembrance of 
days long past into the mind of the countess; those 
days probably when her love for Bertram's father first 
began; and she said to herself, "Even so it was with 
me when I was young. Love is a thorn that belongs 
to the rose of youth : for in the season of youth, if ever 
we are nature's children, these faults are ours, though 
then we think not they are faults." While the countess 
was thus meditating on the loving errors of her own 
youth, Helena entered, and she said to her, "Helena, 
you know I am a mother to you." Helena replied, 
"You are my honourable mistress." "You are my 
daughter," said the countess again: "I say I am your 



168 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

mother. Why do you start and look pale at my words? 1 ' 
With looks of alarm and confused thoughts, fearing 
the countess suspected her love, Helena still replied, 
"Pardon me, madam, you are not my mother; the count 
Rossilion cannot be my brother, nor I your daughter." 
"Yet, Helena," said the countess, "you might be my 
daughter-in-law; and I am afraid that it was you mean 
to be, the words mother and daughter so disturb you. 
Helena, do you love my son?" "Good madam, pardon 
me," said the affrighted Helena. Again the countess 
repeated her question, "Do you love my son?" "Do 
not you love him, madam?" said Helena. The countess 
replied, "Give me not this evasive answer, Helena. 
Come, come, disclose the state of your affections, for 
your love has to the full appeared." Helena on her 
knees now owned her love, and with shame and terror 
implored the pardon of her noble mistress; and with 
words expressive of the sense she had of the inequality 
between their fortunes, she protested Bertram did not 
know she loved him, comparing her humble unaspiring 
love to a poor Indian, who adores the sun, that looks 
upon his worshipper, but knows of him no more. The 
countess asked Helena if she had not lately an intent 
to go to Paris? Helena owned the design she had 
formed in her mind, when she heard Lafeu speak of 
the king's illness. "This was your motive for wishing 
to go to Paris," said the countess, "was it? Speak 
truly." Helena honestly answered, "My lord your son 
made me to think of this; else Paris, and the medicine, 
and the king, had from the conversation of my thoughts 
been absent then." The countess heard the whole of 
this confession without saying a word either of approval 
or of blame, but she strictly questioned Helena as to 



all's well that ends well. 169 

the probability of the medicine being useful to the king. 
She found that it was the most prized by Gerard de 
Narbon of all he possessed, and that he had given it 
to his daughter on his deathbed-, and remembering the 
solemn promise she had made at that awful hour in 
regard to this young maid, whose destiny, and the life 
of the king himself, seemed to depend on the execution 
of a project (which though conceived by the fond sug- 
gestions of a loving maiden's thoughts, the countess 
knew not but it might be the unseen workings of Pro- 
vidence to bring to pass the recovery of the king, and 
to lay the foundation of the future fortunes of Gerard 
de Narbon's daughter), free leave she gave to Helena 
to pursue her own way, and generously furnished her 
with ample means and suitable attendants; and Helena 
set out for Paris with the blessings of the countess, 
and her kindest twishes for her success. 

Helena arrived at Paris, and by the assistance of 
her friend the old lord Lafeu, she obtained an audience 
of the king. She had still many difficulties to encounter, 
for the king was not easily prevailed on to try the 
medicine offered him by this fair young doctor. But 
she told him she was Gerard de Narbon's daughter 
(with whose fame the king was well acquainted), and 
she offered the precious medicine as the darling treasure 
which contained the essence of all her father's long 
experience and skill, and she boldly engaged to forfeit 
her life, if it failed to restore his majesty to perfect 
health in the space of two days. The king at length 
consented to try it, and in two days' time Helena was 
to lose her life if the king did not recover; but if she 
succeeded., he promised to give her the choice of any 



170 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

man throughout all France (the princes only excepted) 
whom she could like for a husband; the choice of a 
husband being the fee Helena demanded, if she cured 
the king of his disease. 

Helena did not deceive herself in the hope she con- 
ceived of the efficacy of her father's medicine. Before 
two days were at an end, the king was restored to per- 
fect health, and he assembled all the young noblemen 
of his court together, in order to confer the promised 
reward of a husband upon his fair physician; and he 
desired Helena to look round on this youthful parcel 
of noble bachelors, and choose her husband. Helena 
was not slow to make her choice, for among these young 
lords she saw the count Rossilion, and turning to Ber- 
tram, she said, "This is the man. I dare not say, my 
lord, I take you, but I give me and my service ever 
whilst I live into your guiding power." "Why then," 
said the king, "young Bertram, take her; she is your 
wife." Bertram did not hesitate to declare his dislike 
to this present of the king's of the self-offered Helena, 
who, he said, was a poor physician's daughter, bred at 
his father's charge, and now living a dependant on his 
mother's bounty. Helena heard him speak these words 
of rejection and of scorn, and she said to the king, 
"That you are well, my lord, I am glad. Let the rest 
go." But the king would not suffer his royal command 
to be so slighted; for the power of bestowing their 
nobles in marriage was one of the many privileges of 
the kings of France; and that same day Bertram was 
married to Helena, a forced and uneasy marriage to 
Bertram, and of no promising hope to the poor lady, 
who, though she gained the noble husband she had 



171 

hazarded her life to obtain, seemed to liave won but a 
splendid blank, her husband's love not being a gift in 
the power of the king of France to bestow. 

Helena was no sooner married, than she was de- 
sired by Bertram to apply to the king for him for 
leave of absence from court; and when she brought 
him the king's permission for his departure, Bertram 
told her that he was not prepared for this sudden mar- 
riage, it had much unsettled him, and therefore she 
must not wonder at the course he should pursue. If 
Helena wondered not, she grieved when she found it 
was his intention to leave her. He ordered her to go 
home to his mother. When Helena heard this unkind 
command, she replied, "Sir, I can nothing say to this, 
but that I am your most obedient servant, and shall 
ever with true observance seek to eke out that desert, 
wherein my homely stars have failed to equal my 
great fortunes." But this humble speech of Helena's 
did not at all move the haughty Bertram to pity his 
gentle wife, and he parted from her without even the 
common civility of a kind farewell. 

Back to the countess then Helena returned. She 
had accomplished the purport of her journey, she had 
preserved the life of the king, and she had wedded 
her heart's dear lord, the count Rossilion; but she re- 
turned back a dejected lady to her noble mother-in- 
law, and as soon as she entered the house she received 
a letter from Bertram which almost broke her heart. 

The good countess received her with a cordial wel- 
come, as if she had been her son's own choice, and a 
lady of a high degree, and she spoke kind words, to 
comfort her for the unkind neglect of Bertram in send- 
ing his wife home on her bridal day alone. But this 



172 TAI.ES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

gracious reception failed to cheer the sad mind of 
Helena, and she said, "Madam, my lord is gone, for 
ever gone." She then read these words out of Ber- 
tram's letter: When you can get the ring from my finger ', 
which never shall come off, then call me husband, but in 
such a Then I write a Never. "This is a dreadful 
sentence!" said Helena. The countess begged her to 
have patience, and said, now Bertram was gone, she 
should be her child, and that she deserved a lord that 
twenty such rude boys as Bertram might tend upon, 
and hourly call her mistress. But in vain by respect- 
ful condescension and kind flattery this matchless 
mother tried to soothe the sorrows of her daughter-in- 
law. Helena still kept her eyes fixed upon the letter, 
and cried out in an agony of grief, Till I have no wife, 
I have nothing in France. The countess asked her if 
she found those words in the letter? "Yes, madam," 
was all poor Helena could answer. 

The next morning Heleua was missing. She left 
a letter to be delivered to the countess after she was 
gone, to acquaint her with the reason of her sudden 
absence: in this letter she informed her, that she was 
so much grieved at having driven Bertram from his 
native country and his home, that to atone for her 
offence, she had undertaken a pilgrimage to the shrine 
of St. Jacques le Grand, and concluded with requesting 
the countess to inform her son, that the wife he so 
hated had left his house for ever. 

Bertram, when he left Paris, went to Florence, and 
there became an officer in the duke of Florence's army, 
and after a successful war, in which he distinguished 
himself by many brave actions, Bertram received 
letters from his mother, containing the acceptable 



173 

tidings that Helena would no more disturb him; and 
he was preparing to return home, when Helena herself, 
clad in her pilgrim's weeds, arrived at the city of 
Florence. 

Florence was a city through which the pilgrims 
used to pass on their way to St. Jaques le Grand; and 
when Helena arrived at this city, she heard that a 
hospitable widow dwelt there, who used to receive into 
her house the female pilgrims that were going to visit 
the shrine of that saint, giving them lodging and kind 
entertainment. To this good lady therefore Helena 
went, and the widow gave her a courteous welcome, 
and invited her to see whatever was curious in that 
famous city, and told her that if she would like to see 
the duke's army, she would take her where she might 
have a full view of it. "And you will see a country- 
man of yours," said the widow; "his name is Count 
Rossilion, who nas done worthy service in the duke's 
wars." Helena wanted no second invitation, when she 
found Bertram was to make part of the show. She 
accompanied her hostess; and a sad and mournful 
pleasure it was to her to look once more upon her dear 
husband's face. "Is he not a handsome man?" said 
the widow. "I like him well," replied Helena with 
great truth. All the way they walked, the talkative 
widow's discourse was all of Bertram: she told Helena 
the story of Bertram's marriage, and how he had 
deserted the poor lady his wife, and entered into the 
duke's army to avoid living with her. To this account 
of her own misfortunes Helena patiently listened, and 
when it was ended, the history of Bertram was not yet 
done, for then the widow began another tale, every 
word of which sunk deep into the mind of Helena; for 



174 TAJLES PROM SHAKSPEARE. 

the story she now. told was of Bertram's love for her 
daughter. 

Though Bertram did not like the marriage forced 
on him by the king, it seems he was not insensible to 
love, for since he had been stationed with the army at 
Florence, he had fallen in love with Diana, a fair 
young gentlewoman, the daughter of this widow who 
was Helena's hostess; and every night, with music of 
all sorts, and songs composed in praise of Diana's 
beauty, he would come under her window, and solicit 
her love; and all his suit to her was, that she would 
permit him to visit her by stealth after the family were 
retired to rest; but Diana would by no means be per- 
suaded to grant this improper request, nor give any 
encouragement to his suit, knowing him to be a married 
man; for Diana had been brought up under the coun- 
sels of a prudent mother, who, though she was now in 
reduced circumstances, was well born, and descended 
from the noble family of the Capulets. 

All this the good lady related to Helena, highly 
praising the virtuous principles of her discreet daughter, 
which she said were entirely owing to the excellent 
education and good advice she had given her; and she 
further said, that Bertram had been particularly im- 
portunate with Diana to admit him to the visit he so 
much desired that night, because he was going to leave 
Florence early the next morning. 

Though it grieved Helena to hear of Bertram's love 
for the widow's daughter, yet from this story the ardent 
mind of Helena conceived a project (nothing dis- 
couraged at the ill success of her former one) to re- 
cover her truant lord. She disclosed to the widow, 
that she was Helena, the deserted wife of Bertram, 



175 

and requested that her kind hostess and her daughter 
would suffer this visit from Bertram to take place, and 
allow her to pass herself upon Bertram for Diana; 
telling them, her chief motive for desiring to have this 
secret meeting with her husband, was to get a ring 
from him, which he had said, if ever she was in pos- 
session of he would acknowledge her as his wife. 

The widow and her daughter promised to assist her 
in this affair, partly moved by pity for this unhappy 
forsaken wife, and partly won over to her interest by 
the promises of reward which Helena made them, 
giving them a purse of money in earnest of her future 
favour. In the course of that day Helena caused in- 
formation to be sent to Bertram that she was dead; 
hoping that when he thought himself free to make a 
second choice by the news of her death, he would offer 
marriage to her in her feigned character of Diana. And 
if she could obtain the ring and this promise too, she 
doubted not she should make some future good come 
of it. 

In the evening, after it was dark, Bertram was 
admitted into Diana's chamber, and Helena was there 
ready to receive him. The flattering compliments and 
love discourse he addressed to Helena were precious 
sounds to her, though she knew they were meant for 
Diana; and Bertram was so well pleased with her, that 
he made her a solemn promise to be her husband, and 
to love her for ever; which she hoped would be pro- 
phetic of a real affection, when he should know it was 
his own wife, the despised Helena, whose conversation 
had so delighted him. 

Bertram never knew how sensible a lady Helena 
was, else perhaps he would not have been so regardless 



176 TALES FROM SHAESPEARE. 

of her; and seeing her every day, lie had entirely 
overlooked her beauty; a face we are accustomed to 
.see constantly, losing the effect which is caused by the 
first sight either of beauty or of plainness; and of her 
understanding it was impossible he should judge, be- 
cause she felt such reverence, mixed with her love for 
him, that she was always silent in his presence: but 
now that her future fate, and the happy ending of all 
Jier love-projects, seemed to depend on her leaving a 
favourable impression on the mind of Bertram from 
this night's interview, she exerted all her wit to please 
Hm; and the simple graces of her lively conversation 
and the endearing sweetness of her manners so charmed 
"Bertram, that he vowed she should be his wife. Helena 
begged the ring from off his finger as a token of his 
regard, and he gave it to her; and in return for this 
ring, which it was of such importance to her to possess, 
she gave him another ring, which was one the king 
had made her a present of. Before it was light in the 
morning, she sent Bertram away; and he immediately 
set out on his journey towards his mother's house. 

Helena prevailed on the widow and Diana to accom- 
pany her to Paris, their further assistance being ne- 
cessary to the full accomplishment of the plan she had 
formed. When they arrived there, they found the 
king was gone upon a visit to the countess of Rossilion, 
and Helena followed the king with all the speed she 
could make. 

The king was still in perfect health, and his grati- 
tude to her who had been the means of his recovery 
was so lively in his mind, that the moment he saw the 
countess of Rossilion, he began to talk of Helena, 
calling her a precious jewel that was lost by the folly 



177 

of her son; but seeing the subject distressed the 
countess, who sincerely lamented the death of Helena, 
he said, "My good lady, I have forgiven and forgotten 
all." But the good-natured old Lafeu, who was pre- 
sent, and could not bear that the memory of his fa- 
vourite Helena should be so lightly passed over, said, 
"This I must say, the young lord did great offence to 
his majesty, his mother, and his lady; but to himself 
he did the greatest wrong of all, for he has lost a wife 
whose beauty astonished all eyes, whose words took 
all ears captive, whose deep perfection made all hearts 
wish to serve her." The king said, "Praising what is 
lost makes the remembrance dear. Well — call him 
hither;" meaning Bertram, who now presented himself 
before the king: and, on his expressing deep sorrow 
for the injuries he had done to Helena, the king, for 
his dead father's and his admirable mother's sake, par- 
doned him and restored him once more to his favour. 
But the gracious countenance of the king was soon 
changed towards him, for he perceived that Bertram 
wore the very ring upon his finger which he had given 
to Helena: and he well remembered that Helena had 
called all the saints in heaven to witness she would 
never part with that ring, unless she sent it to the 
king himself upon some great disaster befalling her; 
and Bertram, on the king's questioning him how he 
came by the ring, told an improbable story of a lady 
throwing it to him out of a window, and denied ever 
having seen Helena since the day of their marriage. 
The king, knowing Bertram's dislike to his wife, feared 
he had destroyed her: and he ordered his guards to 
seize Bertram, saying, "I am wrapt in dismal thinking, 
Tales from Shakespeare. 12 



178 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

for I fear the life of Helena was foully snatched." At 
this moment Diana and her mother entered, and pre- 
sented a petition to the king, wherein they begged his 
majesty to exert his royal power to compel Bertram 
to marry Diana, he having made her a solemn promise 
of marriage. Bertram, fearing the king's anger, denied 
he had made any such promise; and then Diana pro- 
duced the ring (which Helena had put into her hands) 
to confirm the truth of her words; and she said that 
she had given Bertram the ring he then wore, in ex- 
change for that, at the time he vowed to marry her. 
On hearing this, the king ordered the guards to seize 
her also; and her account of the ring differing from 
Bertram's, the king's suspicions were confirmed: and 
he said, if they did not confess how they came by this 
ring of Helena's, they should be both put to death. 
Diana requested her mother might be permitted to 
fetch the jeweller of whom she bought the ring, which 
being granted, the widow went out, and presently re- 
turned leading in Helena herself. 

The good countess, who in silent grief had beheld 
her son's danger, and had even dreaded that the 
suspicion of his having destroyed his wife might pos- 
sibly be true, finding her dear Helena, whom she loved 
with even a maternal affection, was still living, felt a 
delight she was hardly able to support; and the king, 
scarce believing for joy that it was Helena, said, "Is 
this indeed the wife of Bertram that I see?" Helena, 
feeling herself yet an unacknowledged wife, replied, 
"No, my good lord, it is but the shadow of a wife you 
see, the name and not the thing." Bertram cried out, 
"Both, both! pardon!" — "0 my lord," said Helena, 
" when I personated this fair maid, I found you wondrous 



all's well that ends well. 179 

kind; and look, here is your letter!" reading to him in 
a joyful tone those words which she had once repeated 
so sorrowfully, When from my finger you can get this 
ring, — "This is done; it was to me you gave the 
ring. Will you be mine, now you are doubly won?" 
Bertram replied, "If you can make it plain that you 
were the lady I talked with that night, I will love you 
dearly, ever, ever dearly." This was no difficult task, 
for the widow and Diana came with Helena to prove 
this fact; and the king was so well pleased with Diana, 
for the friendly assistance she had rendered the dear 
lady he so truly valued for the service she had done 
him, that he promised her also a noble husband: 
Helena's history giving him a hint, that it was a 
suitable reward for kings to bestow upon fair ladies 
when they perform notable services. 

Thus Helena at last found, that her father's legacy 
was indeed sanctified by the luckiest stars in heaven; 
for she was now the beloved wife of her dear Bertram, 
the daughter-in-law of her noble mistress, and herself 
the countess of Eossilion. 



12* 



180 TALES PROM SHAKSKEARE. 



THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 



Katherine, the Shrew, was the eldest daughter of 
Baptista, a rich gentleman of Padua. She was a lady 
of such an ungovernable spirit and fiery temper, such 
a loud-tongued scold, that she was known in Padua by 
no other name than Katherine the Shrew. It seemed 
very unlikely, indeed impossible, that any gentleman 
would ever be found who would venture to marry this 
lady, and therefore Baptista was much blamed for de- 
ferring his consent to many excellent offers that were 
made to her gentle sister Bianca, putting off all Bianca's 
suitors with this excuse, that when the eldest sister 
was fairly off his hands, they should have free leave 
to address young Bianca. 

It happened however that a gentleman, named 
Petruchio, came to Padua, purposely to look out for a 
wife, who, nothing discouraged by these reports of Ka- 
therine's temper, and hearing she was rich and hand- 
some, resolved upon marrying this famous termagant, 
and taming her into a meek and manageable wife. 
And truly none was so fit to set about this herculean 
labour as Petruchio, whose spirit was as high as Ka- 
therine's, and he was a witty and most happy-tempered 
humorist, and withal so wise, and of such a true 
judgment, that he well knew how to feign a passionate 
and furious deportment, when his spirits were so calm 



THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 181 

that himself could have laughed merrily at his own 
angry feigning, for his natural temper was careless and 
easy; the boisterous airs he assumed when he became 
the husband of Katherine being but in sport, or more 
properly speaking, affected by his excellent discern- 
ment, as the only means to overcome in her own way 
the passionate ways of the furious Katherine. 

A courting then Petruchio went to Katherine the 
Shrew; and first of all he applied to Baptista, her 
father, for leave to woo his gentle daughter Katherine, 
as Petruchio called her, saying archly, that having 
heard of her bashful modesty and mild behaviour, he 
had come from Verona to solicit her love. Her father, 
though he wished her married, was forced to confess 
Katherine would ill answer this character, it being 
soon apparent of what manner of gentleness she was 
composed, for her music-master rushed into the room 
to complain that the gentle Katherine, his pupil, had 
broken his head with her lute, for presuming to find 
fault with her performance; which, when Petruchio 
heard, he said, "It is a brave wench; I love her more 
than ever, and long to have some chat with her;" and 
hurrying the old gentleman for a positive answer, he 
said, "My business is in haste, signior Baptista, I can- 
not come every day to woo. You knew my father: he 
is dead, and has left me heir to all his lands and goods. 
Then tell me, if I get your daughter's love, what 
dowry you will give with her." Baptista thought his 
manner was somewhat blunt for a lover; but being 
glad to get Katherine married, he answered that he 
would give her twenty thousand crowns for her dowry, 
and half his estate at his death: so this odd match 
was quickly agreed on, and Baptista went to apprise 



182 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

his shrewish daughter of her lover's addresses, and sent 
her in to Petruchio to listen to his suit. 

In the mean time Petruchio was settling with him- 
self the mode of courtship he should pursue; and he 
said, "I will woo her with some spirit when she comes. 
If she rails at me, why then I will tell her she sings 
as sweetly as a nightingale; and if she frowns, I will 
say she looks as clear as roses newly washed with 
dew. If she will not speak a word, I will praise the 
eloquence of her language; and if she bids me leave 
her, I will give her thanks as if she bid me stay with 
her a week." Now the stately Katherine entered, and 
Petruchio first addressed her with "Good morrow, 
Kate, for that is your name, I hear." Katherine, not 
liking this plain salutation, said disdainfully, "They 
call me Katherine who do speak to me." "You lie," 
replied the lover; "for you are called plain Kate, and 
bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the Shrew: but, Kate, 
you are the prettiest Kate in Christendom, and there- 
fore, Kate, hearing your mildness praised in every 
town, I am come to woo you for my wife." 

A strange courtship they made of it. She in loud 
and angry terms showing him how justly she had 
gained the name of Shrew, while he still praised her 
sweet and courteous words, till at length, hearing her 
father coming, he said (intending to make as quick a 
wooing as possible), "Sweet Katherine, let us set this 
idle chat aside, for your father has consented that you 
shall be my wife, your dowry is agreed on, and whether 
you will or no, I will marry you." 

And now Baptista entering, Petruchio told him his 
daughter had received him kindly, and that she had 
promised to be married the next Sunday. This Ka- 



THE TAMING OP THE SHREW. 183 

tlierine denied, saying, she would rather see him 
hanged on Sunday, and reproached her father for 
wishing to wed her to such a mad-cap ruffian as 
Petruchio. Petruchio desired her father not to regard 
her angry words, for they had agreed she should seem 
reluctant before him, but that when they were alone 
he had found her very fond and loving; and he said 
to her, "Give me your hand, Kate; I will go to Venice 
to buy you fine apparel against our wedding-day. Pro- 
vide the feast, father, and bid the wedding guests. I 
will be sure to bring rings, fine array, and rich clothes, 
that my Katherine may be fine; and kiss me, Kate, 
for we will be married on Sunday." 

On the Sunday all the wedding guests were as- 
sembled, but they waited long before Petruchio came, 
and Katherine wept for vexation to think that Petruchio 
had only been making a jest of her. At last, however, 
he appeared; but he brought none of the bridal finery 
he had promised Katherine, nor was he dressed him- 
self like a bridegroom, but in strange disordered attire, 
as if he meant to make a sport of the serious business 
he came about; and his servant and the very horses on 
which they rode were in like manner in mean and 
fantastic fashion habited. 

Petruchio could not be persuaded to change his 
dress; he said, Katherine was to be married to him, 
and not to his clothes; and finding it was in vain to 
argue with him, to the church they went, he still be- 
having in the same mad way, for when the priest 
asked Petruchio if Katherine should be his wife, he 
swore so loud that she should, that, all amazed, the 
priest let fall his book, and as he stooped to take it 
up, this mad-brained bridegroom gave him such a cuff, 



184 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

that down fell the priest and his book again. And all 
the while they were being married he stamped and 
swore so, that the high-spirited Katherine trembled and 
shook with fear. After the ceremony was over, while 
they were yet in the church, he called for wine, and 
drank a loud health to the company, and threw a sop 
which was at the bottom of the glass full in the 
sexton's face, giving no other reason for this strange 
act, than that the sexton's beard grew thin and 
hungerly, and seemed to ask the sop as he was drink- 
ing. Never sure was there such a mad marriage; but 
Petruchio did but put this wildness on, the better to 
succeed in the plot he had formed to tame his shrewish 
wife. 

Baptista had provided a sumptuous marriage feast, 
but when they returned from church, Petruchio, taking 
hold of Katherine, declared his intention of carrying 
his wife home instantly: and no remonstrance of his 
father-in-law, or angry words of the enraged Katherine, 
could make him change his purpose-, he claimed a hus- 
band's right to dispose of his wife as he pleased, and 
away he hurried Katherine off: he seeming so daring 
and resolute that no one dared attempt to stop him. 

Petruchio mounted his wife upon a miserable horse, 
lean and lank, which he had picked out for the pur- 
pose, and himself and his servant no better mounted; 
they journeyed on through rough and miry ways, and 
ever when this horse of Katherine's stumbled, he would 
storm and swear at the poor jaded beast, who could 
scarce crawl under his burthen, as if he had been the 
most passionate man alive. 

At length, after a weary journey, during which 
Katherine had heard nothing but the wild ravings of 



THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 185 

Petruchio at the servant and the horses, they arrived 
at his house. Petruchio welcomed her kindly to her 
home, but he resolved she should have neither rest nor 
food that night. The tables were spread, and supper 
soon served; but Petruchio, pretending to find fault 
with every dish, threw the meat about the floor, and 
ordered the servants to remove it away; and all this 
he did, as he said, in love for his Katherine, that she 
might not eat meat that was not well dressed. And 
when Katherine, weary and supperless, retired to rest, 
he found the same fault with the bed, throwing the 
pillows and bed-clothes about the room, so that she 
was forced to sit down in a chair, where if she chanced 
to drop asleep, she was presently awakened by the load 
voice of her husband, storming at the servants for the 
ill-making of his wife's bridal-bed. 

The next day Petruchio pursued the same course, 
still speaking kind words to Katherine, but when she 
attempted to eat, finding fault with everything that 
was set before her, throwing the breakfast on the floor 
as he had done the supper; and Katherine, the haughty 
Katherine, was fain to beg the servants would bring 
her secretly a morsel of food; but they being instructed 
by Petruchio, replied, they dared not give her anything 
unknown to their master. "Ah," said she, "did he 
marry me to famish me? Beggars that come to my 
father's door have food given them. But I, who never 
knew what it was to entreat for anything, am starved 
for want of food, giddy for want of sleep, with oaths 
kept waking, and with brawling fed; and that which 
vexes me more than all, he does it under the name of 
perfect love, pretending that if I sleep or eat, it were 
present death to me." Here the soliloquy was inter- 



186 TALES PROM SHAKSPEARE. 

rupted by the entrance of Petruchio: he, not meaning 
&he should be quite starved, had brought her a small 
portion of meat, and he said to her, "How fares my 
sweet Kate? Here, love, you see how diligent I am, 
I have dressed your meat myself. I am sure this kind- 
ness merits thanks. What not a word? Nay, then you 
love not the meat, and all the pains I have taken is to 
no purpose." He then ordered the servant to take the 
dish away. Extreme hunger, which had abated the 
pride of Katherine, made her say, though angered to 
the heart, "I pray you let it stand." But this was not 
all Petruchio intended to bring her to, and he replied, 
"The pooreet service is repaid with thanks, and so shall 
mine before you touch the meat." On this Katherine 
brought out a reluctant "I thank you, sir." And now 
he suffered her to make a slender meal, saying, "Much 
good may it do your gentle heart, Kate; eat apace! 
And now, my honey love, we will return to your fa- 
ther's house, and revel it as bravely as the best, with 
silken coats and caps and golden rings, with ruffs and 
scarfs and fans and double change of finery;" and to 
make her believe he really intended to give her these 
gay things, he called in a tailor and a haberdasher, 
who brought some new clothes he had ordered for her, 
and then giving her plate to the servant to take away, 
before she had half satisfied her hunger, he said, "What, 
have you dined?" The haberdasher presented a cap, 
saying, "Here is the cap your worship bespoke;" on 
which Petruchio began to storm afresh, saying the cap 
was moulded in a porringer, and that it was no bigger 
than a cockle or walnut shell, desiring the haberdasher 
to take it away and make a bigger. Katherine said, 
d< I will have this; all gentlewomen wear such caps as 



THE TAMING OP THE SHREW. 187 

these." — "When you are gentle," replied Petruchio, 
"you shall have one too, and not till then." The meat 
Katherine had eaten had a little revived her fallen 
spirits, and she said, "Why, sir, I trust I may have 
leave to speak, and speak I will: I am no child, no 
babe*, your betters have endured to hear me say my 
mind; and if you cannot, you had better stop your 
ears." Petruchio would not hear these angry words, 
for he had happily discovered a better way of managing 
his wife than keeping up a jangling argument with her; 
therefore his answer was, "Why, you say true; it is a 
paltry cap, and I love you for not liking it." — "Love 
me, or love me not," said Katherine, "I like the cap, 
and I will have this cap or none." — "You say you 
wish to see the gown," said Petruchio, still affecting to 
misunderstand her. The tailor then came forward and 
showed her a fine gown he had made for her. Petruchio, 
whose intent was that she should have neither cap nor 
gown, found as much fault with that. "0 mercy, 
Heaven!" said he, "what stuff is here! What, do you 
call this a sleeve? it is like a demi-cannon, carved up 
and down like an apple tart." The tailor said, "You 
bid me make it according to the fashion of the times ; " 
and Katherine said, she never saw a better fashioned 
gown. This was enough for Petruchio, and privately 
desiring these people might be paid for their goods, 
and excuses made to them for the seemingly strange 
treatment he bestowed upon them, he with fierce words 
and furious gestures drove the tailor and the haber- 
dasher out of the room; and then, turning to Katherine, 
he said, "Well, come, my Kate, we will go to your 
father's even in these mean garments we now wear." 
And then he ordered his horses, affirming they should 



188 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

reach Baptista's house by dinner-time, for that it was 
but seven o'clock. Now it was not early morning, but 
the very middle of the day, when he spoke this; there- 
fore Katherine ventured to say, though modestly, being 
almost overcome by the vehemence of his manner, "I 
dare assure you, sir, it is two o'clock, and will be sup- 
per-time before we get there." But Petruchio meant 
that she should be so completely subdued, that she 
should assent to every thing he said, before he carried 
her to her father; and therefore, as if he were lord 
even of the sun, and could command the hours, he 
said it should be what time he pleased to have it, be- 
fore he set forward; "For," said he, "whatever I say 
or do, you still are crossing it. I will not go to-day, 
and when I go, it shall be what o'clock I say it is." 
Another day Katherine was forced to practise her newly- 
found obedience, and not till he had brought her proud 
spirit to such a perfect subjection, that she dared not 
remember there was such a word as contradiction, would 
Petruchio allow her to go to her father's house; and 
even while they were upon their journey thither, she 
was in danger of being turned back again, only be- 
cause she happened to hint it was the sun, when he 
affirmed the moon shone brightly at noonday. "Now, 
by my mother's son," said he, "and that is myself, it 
shall be the moon, or stars, or what I list, before I 
journey to your father's house." He then made as if 
he were going back again; but Katherine, no longer 
Katherine the Shrew, but the obedient wife, said, "Let 
us go forward, I pray, now we have come so far, and 
it shall be the sun, or moon, or what you please, and 
if you please to call it a rush candle henceforth , I vow 
it shall be so for me." This he was resolved to prove, 



THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 189 

therefore lie said again, "I say, it is the moon." — "I 
know it is the moon," replied Katherine. "You lie, it 
is the blessed sun," said Petruchio. "Then it is the 
blessed sun," replied Katherine; "but sun it is not, 
when you say it is not. What you will have it named, 
even so it is, and so it ever shall be for Katherine." 
Now then he suffered her to proceed on her journey; 
but further to try if this yielding humour would last, 
he addressed an old gentleman they met on the road 
as if he had been a young woman, saying to him, 
"Good morrow, gentle mistress;" and asked Katherine 
if she had ever beheld a fairer gentlewoman, praising 
the red and white of the old man's cheeks , and com- 
paring his eyes to two bright stars; and again he ad- 
dressed him, saying, "Fair lovely maid, once more 
good day to you!" and said to his wife, "Sweet Kate, 
embrace her for, her beauty's sake." The now com- 
pletely vanquished Katherine quickly adopted her hus- 
band's opinion, and made her speech in like sort to the 
old gentleman, saying to him, "Young budding virgin, 
you are fair, and fresh, and sweet: whither are you 
going, and where is your dwelling? Happy are the 
parents of so fair a child." — "Why, how now, Kate," 
said Petruchio; "I hope you are not mad. This is a 
man, old and wrinkled, faded and withered, and not 
a maiden, as you say he is." On this Katherine said, 
"Pardon me, old gentleman; the sun has so dazzled 
my eyes, that everything I look on seemeth green. 
Now I perceive you are a reverend father: I hope you 
will pardon me for my sad mistake." — "Do, good 
old grandsire," said Petruchio, "and tell us which way 
you are travelling. We shall be glad of your good 



190 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

company, if you are going our way." The old gentle- 
man replied, "Fair sir, and you my merry mistress, 
your strange encounter has much amazed me. My 
name is Vincentio, and I am going to visit a son of 
mine who lives at Padua." Then Petruchio knew the 
old gentleman to be the father of Lucentio, a young 
gentleman who was to be married to Baptista's younger 
daughter, Bianca, and he made Vincentio very happy, 
by telling him the rich marriage his son was about to 
make; and they all journeyed on pleasantly together 
till they came to Baptista's house, where there was a 
large company assembled to celebrate the wedding of 
Bianca and Lucentio, Baptista having willingly con- 
sented to the marriage of Bianca when he had got 
Katherine off his hands. 

When they entered, Baptista welcomed them to the 
wedding feast, and there was present also another newly 
married pair. 

Lucentio, Bianca's husband, and Hortensio, the other 
new married man, could not forbear sly jests, which 
seemed to hint at the shrewish disposition of Petruchio's 
wife, and these fond bridegrooms seemed highly pleased 
with the mild tempers of the ladies they had chosen, 
laughing at Petruchio for his less fortunate choice. 
Petruchio took little notice of their jokes till the ladies 
were retired after dinner, and then he perceived Bap- 
tista himself joined in the laugh against him: for when 
Petruchio affirmed that his wife would prove more 
obedient than theirs, the father of Katherine said, "Now, 
in good sadness, son Petruchio, I fear you have got the 
veriest shrew of all." "Well," said Petruchio, "I say 
no, and therefore for assurance that I speak the truth, 



THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 191 

let us each one send for his wife, and he whose wife 
is most obedient to come at first when she is sent for, 
shall win a wager which we will propose." To this 
the other two husbands willingly consented, for they 
were quite confident that their gentle wives would prove 
more obedient than the headstrong Katherine; and they 
proposed a wager of twenty crowns, but Petruchio 
merrily said, he would lay as much as that upon his 
hawk or hound, but twenty times as much upon his 
wife. Lucentio and Hortensio raised the wager to a 
hundred crowns, and Lucentio first sent his servant to 
desire Bianca would come to him. But the servant re- 
turned, and said, "Sir, my mistress sends you word she 
is busy and cannot come." — "How," said Petruchio, 
"does she say she is busy and cannot come? Is that an 
answer for a wife?" Then they laughed at him, and 
said, it would be well if Katherine did not send him 
a worse answer. And now it was Hortensio's turn to 
send for his wife; and he said to his servant, "Go, and 
entreat my wife to come to me." "Oh ho! entreat 
her!" said Petruchio. "Nay, then, she needs must 
come." — "I am afraid, sir," said Hortensio, "your 
wife will not be entreated." But presently this civil 
husband looked a little blank, when the servant returned 
without his mistress; and he said to him, "How now I 
Where is my wife?" — "Sir," said the servant, "my 
mistress says, you have some goodly jest in hand, and 
therefore she will not come. She bids you come to 
her." — "Worse and worse!" said Petruchio; and then 
he sent his servant, saying, "Sirrah, go to your mistress, 
and tell her I command her to come to me." The 
company had scarcely time to think she would not 



192 TALES .FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

obey this summons, when Baptista, all in amaze, ex- 
claimed, "Now, by my hollidam, here comes Katherine!" 
and she entered, saying meekly to Petruchio, "What is 
your will, sir, that you send for me?" — "Where is 
your sister and Hortensio's wife?" said he. Katherine 
replied, "They sit conferring by the parlour fire." — 
"Go, fetch them hither!" said Petruchio. Away went 
Katherine without reply to perform her husband's com- 
mand. "Here is a wonder," said Lucentio, "if you 
talk of a wonder." — "And so it is," said Hortensio; 
"I marvel what it bodes." — "Marry, peace it bodes," 
said Petruchio, "and love, and quiet life, and right 
supremacy, and to be short, every thing that is sweet 
and happy." Katherine's father, overjoyed to see this 
reformation in his daughter, said, "Now, fair befall thee, 
son Petruchio! you have won the wager, and I will 
add another twenty thousand crowns to her dowry, as 
if she were another daughter, for she is changed as if 
she had never been." — "Nay," said Petruchio, "I will 
win the wager better yet, and show more signs of her 
new-built virtue and obedience." Katherine now entering 
with the two ladies, he continued, "See where she comes, 
and brings your froward wives as prisoners to her wo- 
manly persuasion. Katherine, that cap of yours does 
not become you; off with that bauble, and throw it 
under foot." Katharine instantly took off her cap, and 
threw it down. "Lord!" said Hortensio's wife, "may 
I never have a cause to sigh till I am brought to such 
a silly pass!" And Bianca, she too said, "Fie, what 
foolish duty call you this?" On this Bianca's husband 
said to her, "I wish your duty were as foolish too! 
The wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca, hast cost me a 



THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 193 

hundred crowns since dinner-time." — "The more fool 
you," said Bianca, "for laying on my duty." — "Ka- 
therine," said Petruchio, "I charge you tell these head- 
strong women what duty they owe their lords and hus- 
bands." And to the wonder of all present, the reformed 
shrewish lady spoke as eloquently in praise of the wife- 
like duty of obedience, as she had practised it implicitly 
in a ready submission to Petruchio's will. And Ka- 
therine once more became famous in Padua, not as 
heretofore, as Katherine the Shrew, but as Katherine 
the most obedient and duteous wife in Padua. 



Tales from Shakspeare, 13 



194 TALES PROM SHAKSPBARE. 



THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 



The states of Syracuse andEphesus being at variance, 
there was a cruel law made at Ephesus, ordaining that 
if any merchant of Syracuse was seen in the city of 
Ephesus, he was to be put to death, unless he could 
pay a thousand marks for the ransom of his life. 

Mgeon, an old merchant of Syracuse, was discovered 
in the streets of Ephesus, and brought before the duke, 
either to pay this heavy fine, or to receive sentence of 
death. 

JEgeon had no money to pay the fine, and the duke, 
before he pronounced the sentence of death upon him, 
desired him to relate the history of his life, and to tell 
for what cause he had ventured to come to the city of 
Ephesus, which it was death for any Syracusan merchant 
to enter. 

-^Egeon said, that he did not fear to die, for sorrow 
had made him weary of his life, but that a heavier 
task could not have been imposed upon him than to 
relate the events of his unfortunate life. He then began 
his own history, in the following words: 

"I was born at Syracuse, and brought up to the 
profession of a merchant. I married a lady, with whom 
I lived very happily, but being obliged to go to Epi- 
damnium, I was detained there by my business six 
months, and then, finding I should be obliged to stay 



THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 135 

some time longer, I sent for my wife, who, as soon as 
she arrived, was brought to bed of two sons, and what 
was very strange, they were both so exactly alike, that 
it was impossible to distinguish the one from the other. 
At the same time that my wife was brought to bed of 
these twin boys, a poor woman in the inn where my 
wife lodged was brought to bed of two sons, and these 
twins were as much like each other as my two sons 
were. The parents of these children being exceeding 
poor, I bought the two boys, and brought them up to 
attend upon my sons. 

"My sons were very fine children, and my wife 
was not a little proud of two such boys: and she daily 
wishing to return home, I unwillingly agreed, and in 
an evil hour we got on shipboard; for we had not sailed 
above a league from Epidamnium before a dreadful 
storm arose, which continued with such violence, that 
the sailors, seeing no chance of saving the ship, crowded 
into the boat to save their own lives, leaving us alone 
in the ship, which we every moment expected would 
be destroyed by the fury of the storm. 

"The incessant weeping of my wife, and the piteous 
complaints of the pretty babes, who not knowing what 
to fear, wept for fashion, because they saw their mother 
weep, filled me with terror for them, though I did not 
for myself fear death; and all my thoughts were bent 
to contrive means for their safety. I tied my youngest 
son to the end of a small spare mast, such as seafaring 
men provide against storms; at the other end I bound 
the youngest of the twin slaves, and at the same time 
I directed my wife how to fasten the other children in 
like manner to another mast. She thus having the 
care of the two eldest children, and I of the two younger, 

13* 



196 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

we bound ourselves separately to these masts with the 
children, and but for this contrivance we had all been 
lost, for the ship split on a mighty rock, and was dashed 
in pieces; and we clinging to these slender masts were 
supported above the water, where I, having the care 
of two children, was unable to assist my wife, who with 
the other children was soon separated from me; but 
while they were yet in my sight, they were taken up 
by a boat of fishermen, from Corinth (as I supposed), 
and seeing them in safety, I had no care but to struggle 
with the wild sea- waves, to preserve my dear son and 
the youngest slave. At length we in our turn were 
taken up by a ship, and the sailors, knowing me, gave 
us kind welcome and assistance, and landed us in safety 
at Syracuse; but from that sad hour I have never known 
what became of my wife and eldest child. 

"My youngest son, and now my only care, when 
he was eighteen years of age, began to be inquisitive 
after his mother and his brother, and often importuned 
me that he might take his attendant, the young slave, 
who had also lost his brother, and go in search of them: 
at length I unwillingly gave consent, for though I anx- 
iously desired to hear tidings of my wife and eldest 
son, yet in sending my younger one to find them, I 
hazarded the loss of him also. It is now seven years 
since my son left me; five years have I passed in tra- 
velling through the world in search of him: 1 have been 
in farthest Greece, and through the bounds of Asia, 
and coasting homewards, I landed here in Ephesus, 
being unwilling to leave any place unsought that 
harbours men; but this day must end the story of my 
life, and happy should I think myself in my death, if 
I were assured my wife and sons were living." 



THE COMEDY OP ERROllS. 197 

Here the hapless iEgeon ended the account of his 
misfortunes; and the duke, pitying this unfortunate 
father, who had brought upon himself this great peril 
by his love for his lost son, said, if it were not against 
the laws, which his oath and dignity did not permit 
him to alter, he would freely pardon him; yet, instead 
of dooming him to instant death, as the strict letter of 
the law required, he would give him that day to try if 
he could beg or borrow the money to pay the fine. 

This day of grace did seem no great favour to 
iEgeon, for not knowing any man in Ephesus, there 
seemed to him but little chance that any stranger would 
lend or give him a thousand marks to pay the fine; 
and helpless and hopeless of any relief, he retired from 
the presence of the duke in the custody of a jailor. 

iEgeon supposed he knew no person in Ephesus; 
but at the very "time he was in danger of losing his 
life through the careful search he was making after his 
youngest son, that son and his eldest son also were both 
in the city of Ephesus. 

iEgeon's sons, besides being exactly alike in face 
and person, were both named alike, being both called 
Antipholis, and the two twin slaves were also both 
named Dromio. IEgeon's youngest son, Antipholis of 
Syracuse, he whom the old man had come to Ephesus 
to seek, happened to arrive at Ephesus with his slave 
Dromio that very same day that iEgeon did; and he 
being also a merchant of Syracuse, he would have been 
in the same danger that his father was, but by good 
fortune he met a friend who told him the peril an old 
merchant of Syracuse was in, and advised him to pass 
for a merchant of Epidamnium; this Antipholis agreed 
to do, and he was sorry to hear one of his own country- 



198 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

men was in this danger, but he little thought this old 
merchant was his own father. 

The oldest son of iEgeon (who must be called An- 
tipholis of Ephesus, to distinguish him from his brother 
Antipholis of Syracuse) had lived at Ephesus twenty 
years, and, being a rich man, was well able to have 
paid the money for the ransom of his father's life; but 
Antipholis knew nothing of his father, being so young 
when he was taken out of the sea with his mother by 
the fishermen, that he only remembered he had been 
so preserved, but he had no recollection of either his 
father or his mother; the fishermen who took up this 
Antipholis and his mother and the young slave Dromio, 
having carried the two children away from her (to the 
great grief of that unhappy lady), intending to sell 
them. 

Antipholis and Dromio were sold by them to duke 
Menaphon, a famous warrior, who was uncle to the 
duke of Ephesus, and he carried the boys to Ephesus 
when he went to visit the duke his nephew. 

The duke of Ephesus taking a liking to young 
Antipholis, when he grew up, made him an officer in 
his army, in which he distinguished himself by his 
great bravery in the wars, where he saved the life of 
his patron the duke, who rewarded his merit by mar- 
rying him to Adriana, a rich lady of Ephesus; with 
whom he was living (his slave Dromio still attending 
him) at the time his father came there. 

Antipholis of Syracuse, when he parted with his 
friend, who advised him to say he came from Epi- 
damnium, gave his slave Dromio some money to carry 
to the inn where he intended to dine, and in the mean 



THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 199 

time lie said he would walk about and view the city, 
and observe the manners of the people. 

Dromio was a pleasant fellow, and when Anti- 
pholis was dull and melancholy he used to divert him- 
self with the odd humours and merry jests of his slave, 
so that the freedom of speech he allowed in Dromio 
was greater than is usual between masters and their 
servants. 

When Antipholis of Syracuse had sent Dromio 
away, he stood awhile thinking over his solitary wan- 
derings in search of his mother and his brother, of 
whom in no place where he landed could he hear the 
least tidings; and he said sorrowfully to himself, "I 
am like a drop of water in the ocean, which seeking 
to find its fellow drop, loses itself in the wide sea. 
So I unhappily, to find a mother and a brother, do 
lose myself." * 

While he was thus meditating on his weary travels, 
which had hitherto been so useless, Dromio (as he 
thought) returned. Antipholis, wondering that he 
came back so soon, asked him where he had left the 
money. Now it was not his own Dromio, but the 
twin-brother that lived with Antipholis of Ephesus, 
that he spoke to. The two Dromios and the two 
Antipholises were still as much alike as JEgeon had 
said they were in their infancy; therefore no wonder 
Antipholis thought it was his own slave returned, and 
asked him why he came back so soon. Dromio re- 
plied, "My mistress sent me to bid you come to dinner. 
The capon burns, and the pig falls from the spit, and 
the meat will be all cold if you do not come home." 
"These jests are out of season," said Antipholis: 
"where did you leave the money?" Dromio still 



200 TALES FROM SBAKSPEARE. 

answering, that his mistress had sent him to fetch 
Antipholis to dinner: "What mistress?" said Anti- 
pholis. "Why, your worship's wife, sir," replied 
Dromio. Antipholis having no wife, he was very 
angry with Dromio, and said, "Because I familiarly 
sometimes chat with you, you presume to jest with me 
in this free manner. I am not in a sportive humour 
now: where is the money? we being strangers here, 
how dare you trust so great a charge from your own 
custody?" Dromio hearing his master, as he thought 
him, talk of their being strangers, supposing Antipholis 
was jesting, replied merrily, "I pray you, sir, jest as 
you sit at dinner. I had no charge but to fetch you 
home, to dine with my mistress and her sister." Now 
Antipholis lost all patience, and beat Dromio, who ran 
home, and told his mistress that his master had refused 
to come to dinner, and said that he had no wife. 

Adriana, the wife of Antipholis of Ephesus, was 
very angry when she heard that her husband said he 
had no wife; for she was of a jealous temper, and she 
said her husband meant that he loved another lady 
better than herself; and she began to fret, and say 
unkind words of jealousy and reproach of her hus- 
band; and her sister Luciana, who lived with her, 
tried in vain to persuade her out of her groundless 
suspicions. 

Antipholis of Syracuse went to the inn, and found 
Dromio with the money in safety there, and seeing his 
own Dromio, he was going again to chide him for his 
free jests, when Adriana came up to him, and not 
doubting but it was her husband she saw, she began 
to reproach him for looking strange upon her (as well 
he might, never having seen this angry lady before); 



THE COMEDY OP ERRORS. 201 

and then she told him how well he loved her before 
they were married, and that now he loved some other 
lady instead of her. "How comes it now, my hus- 
band," said she, "0 how comes it that I have lost 
your love?" — "Plead you to me, fair dame?" said 
the astonished Antipholis. It was in vain he told her 
he was not her husband, and that he had been in 
Ephesus but two hours; she insisted on his going home 
with her, and Antipholis at last, being unable to get 
away, went with her to his brother's house, and dined 
with Adriana and her sister, the one calling him hus- 
band, and the other brother, he, all amazed, thinking 
he must have been married to her in his sleep, or that 
he was sleeping now. And Dromio, who followed 
them, was no less surprised, for the cook-maid, who 
was his brother's wife, also claimed him for her hus- 
band. 

While Antipholis of Syracuse was dining with his 
brother's wife, his brother, the real husband, returned 
home to dinner with his slave Dromio; but the ser- 
vants would not open the door, because their mistress 
had ordered them not to admit any company; and 
when they repeatedly knocked, and said they were 
Antipholis and Dromio, the maids laughed at them, 
and said that Antipholis was at dinner with their 
mistress, and Dromio was in the kitchen; and though 
they almost knocked the door down, they could not 
gain admittance, and at last Antipholis went away 
very angry, and strangely surprised at hearing a gentle- 
man was dining with his wife. 

When Antipholis of Syracuse had finished his 
dinner, he was so perplexed at the lady's still per- 
sisting in calling him husband, and at hearing that 



202 TALES PROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Dromio had also been claimed by the cook-maid, that 
he left the house, as soon as he could find any pre- 
tence to get away; for though he was very much 
pleased with Luciana, the sister, yet the jealous- 
tempered Adriana he disliked very much, nor was 
Dromio at all better satisfied with his fair wife in the 
kitchen: therefore both master and man were glad to 
get away from their new wives as fast as they could. 

The moment Antipholis of Syracuse had left the 
house, he was met by a goldsmith, who mistaking him, 
as Adriana had done, for Antipholis of Ephesus, gave 
him a gold chain, calling him by his name; and when 
Antipholis would have refused the chain, saying it did 
not belong to him, the goldsmith replied he made it 
by his own orders; and went away, leaving the chain 
in the hands of Antipholis, who ordered his man 
Dromio to get his things on board a ship, not choosing 
to stay in a place any longer, where he met with such 
strange adventures that he surely thought himself be- 
witched. 

The goldsmith who had given the chain to the 
wrong Antipholis, was arrested immediately after for a 
sum of money he owed; and Antipholis, the married 
brother, to whom the goldsmith thought he had given 
the chain, happened to come to the place where the 
officer was arresting the goldsmith, who, when he saw 
Antipholis, asked him to pay for the gold chain he 
had just delivered to him, the price amounting to 
nearly the same sum as that for which he had been 
arrested. Antipholis denying the having received the 
chain, and the goldsmith persisting to declare that he 
had but a few minutes before given it to him, they 
disputed this matter a long time, both thinking they 



THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 203 

were right: for Antipholis knew the goldsmith never 
gave him the chain, and, so like were the two brothers, 
the goldsmith was as certain he had delivered the 
chain into his hands, till at last the officer took the 
goldsmith away to prison for the debt he owed, and 
at the same time the goldsmith made the officer arrest 
Antipholis for the price of the chain; so that at the 
conclusion of their dispute, Antipholis and the merchant 
were both taken away to prison together. 

As Antipholis was going to prison, he met Dromio 
of Syracuse, his brother's slave, and mistaking him for 
his own, he ordered him to go to Adriana his wife, 
and tell her to send the money for which he was 
arrested. Dromio wpndering that his master should 
send him back to the strange house where he dined, 
and from wljich he had just before been in such haste 
to depart, did not dare to reply, though he came to 
tell his master the ship was ready to sail; for he saw 
Antipholis was in no humour to be jested with. There- 
fore he went away, grumbling within himself, that he 
must return to Adriana's house, "Where," said he, 
"Dowsabel claims me for a husband: but I must go, 
for servants must obey their masters' commands." 

Adriana gave him the money, and as Dromio was 
returning, he met Antipholis of Syracuse, who was 
still in amaze at the surprising adventures he met 
with; for his brother being well known in Ephesus, 
there was hardly a man he met in the streets but 
saluted him as an old acquaintance: some offered him 
money which they said was owing to him, some invited 
him to come and see them, and some gave him thanks 
for kindnesses they said he had done them, all mistak- 



204 TALES PROM SHAKSPEARE. 

ing him for his brother. A tailor showed him some 
silks he had bought for him, and insisted upon taking 
measure of him for some clothes. 

Antipholis began to think he was among a nation 
of sorcerers and witches, and Dromio did not at all 
relieve his master from his bewildered thoughts, by- 
asking him how he got free from the officer who was 
carrying him to prison, and giving him the purse of 
gold which Adriana had sent to pay the debt with. 
This talk of Dromio's of the arrest and of a prison, 
and of the money he had brought from Adriana, per- 
fectly confounded Antipholis, and he said, "This fel- 
low Dromio is certainly distracted, and we wander 
here in illusions;" and quite terrified at his own con- 
fused thoughts, he cried out, "Some blessed power 
deliver us from this strange place!" 

And now another stranger came up to him, and 
she was a lady, and she too called him Antipholis, 
and told him he had dined with her that day, and 
asked him for a gold chain which she said he had 
promised to give her. Antipholis now lost all patience, 
and calling her a sorceress, he denied that he had ever 
promised her a chain, or dined with her, or had even 
seen her face before that moment. The lady persisted 
in affirming he had dined with her, and had promised 
her a chain, which Antipholis still denying, she further 
said, that she had given him a valuable ring, and if 
he would not give her the gold chain, she insisted 
upon having her own ring again. On this Antipholis 
became quite frantic, and again calling her sorceress 
and witch, and denying all knowledge of her or her 
ring, ran away from her, leaving her astonished at his 
words and his wild looks, for nothing to her appeared 



THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 205 

more certain than that he had dined with her, and 
that she had given him a ring, in consequence of his 
promising to make her a present of a gold chain. But 
this lady had fallen into the same mistake the others 
had done, for she had taken him for his brother: the 
married Antipholis had done all the things she taxed 
this Antipholis with. 

When the married Antipholis was denied entrance 
into his own house (those within supposing him to be 
already there), he had gone away very angry, believing 
it to be one of his wife's jealous freaks, to which she 
was very subject, and remembering that she had often 
falsely accused him of visiting other ladies, he, to be 
revenged on her for shutting him out of his own house, 
determined to go and dine with this lady, and she 
receiving him with great civility, and his wife having 
so highly offended him, Antipholis promised to give 
her a gold chain, which he had intended as a present 
for his wife; it was the same chain which the gold- 
smith by mistake had given to his brother. The lady 
liked so well the thoughts of having a fine gold chain, 
that she gave the married Antipholis a ring; which 
when, as she supposed (taking his brother for him), he 
denied, and said he did not know her, and left her in 
such a wild passion, she began to think he was cer- 
tainly out of his senses; and presently she resolved to 
go and tell Adriana that her husband was mad. And 
while she was telling it to Adriana, he came, attended 
by the jailor (who allowed him to come home to get 
the money to pay the debt), for the purse of money, 
which Adriana had sent by Dromio, and he had de- 
livered to the other Antipholis. 

Adriana believed the story the lady told her of her 



206 TALES PROM SHAKSPEARE. 

husband's madness must be true, when he reproached 
her for shutting him out of his own house; and remem- 
bering how he had protested all dinner-time that he 
was not her husband, and had never been in Ephesus 
till that day, she had no doubt that he was mad; she 
therefore paid the jailor the money, and having dis- 
charged him, she ordered her servants to bind her hus- 
band with ropes, and had him conveyed into a dark 
room, and sent for a doctor to come and cure him of 
his madness: Antipholis all the while hotly exclaiming 
against this false accusation, which the exact likeness 
he bore to his brother had brought upon him. But his 
rage only the more confirmed them in the belief that 
he was mad; and Dromio persisting in the same story, 
they bound him also, and took him away along with 
his master. 

Soon after Adriana had put her husband into con- 
finement, a servant came to tell her that Antipholis 
and Dromio must have broken loose from their keepers, 
for that they were both walking at liberty in the next 
street. On hearing this, Adriana ran out to fetch him 
home, taking some people with her to secure her hus- 
band again; and her sister went along with her. When 
they came to the gates of a convent in their neigh- 
bourhood, there they saw Antipholis and Dromio, as 
they thought, being again deceived by the likeness of 
the twin-brothers. 

Antipholis of Syracuse was still beset with the per- 
plexities this likeness had brought upon him. The 
chain which the goldsmith had given him was about 
his neck, and the goldsmith was reproaching him for 
denying that he had it, and refusing to pay for it, and 
Antipholis was protesting that the goldsmith freely 



THE COMEDY OP ERRORS. 207 

gave him the chain in the morning, and that from that 
hour he had never seen the goldsmith again. 

And now Adriana came np to him and claimed 
him as her lunatic husband, who had escaped from his 
keepers; and the men she brought with her were going 
to lay violent hands on Antipholis and Dromio; but 
they ran into the convent, and Antipholis begged the 
abbess to give him shelter in her house. 

And now came out the lady abbess herself to in- 
quire into the cause of this disturbance. She was a 
grave and venerable lady, and wise to judge of what 
she saw, and she would not too hastily give up the 
man who had sought protection in her house; so she 
strictly questioned the wife about the story she told of 
her husband's madness, and she said, "What is the 
cause of this sudden distemper of your husband's? Has 
he lost his wealth at sea? Or is it the death of some 
dear friend tKat has disturbed his mind?" Adriana 
replied, that no such things as these had been the 
cause. "Perhaps," said the abbess, "he has fixed his 
affections on some other lady than you his wife; and 
that has driven him to this state." Adriana said she 
had long thought the love of some other lady was the 
cause of his frequent absences from home. Now it was 
not his love for another, but the teasing jealousy of 
his wife's temper, that often obliged Antipholis to leave 
his home; and (the abbess suspecting this from the 
vehemence of Adriana's manner) to learn the truth, she 
said, "You should have reprehended him for this." — 
"Why so I did," replied Adriana. "Ay," said the 
abbess, "but perhaps not enough." Adriana, willing 
to convince the abbess that she had said enough to 
Antipholis on this subject, replied, "It was the con- 



208 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

stant subject of our conversation: in bed I would noi 
let him sleep for speaking of it. At table I would not 
let him eat for speaking of it. When I was alone with 
him, I talked of nothing else; and in company I gave 
him frequent hints of it. Still all my talk was how 
vile and bad it was in him to love any lady better 
than me." 

The lady abbess, having drawn this full confession 
from the jealous Adriana, now said, "And therefore 
comes it that your husband is mad. The venomous 
clamour of a jealous woman is a more deadly poison 
than a mad dog's tooth. It seems his sleep was hin- 
dered by your railing; no wonder that his head is 
light: and his meat was sauced with your upbraidings: 
unquiet meals make ill digestions, and that has thrown 
him into this fever. You say his sports were disturbed 
by your brawls; being debarred from the enjoyment 
of society and recreation, what could ensue but dull 
melancholy and comfortless despair? The consequence 
is then, that your jealous fits have made your husband 
mad." 

Luciana would have excused her sister, saying, she 
always reprehended her husband mildly; and she said 
to her sister, "Why do you hear these rebukes with- 
out answering them?" But the abbess had made her 
so plainly perceive her fault, that she could only an- 
swer, "She has betrayed me to my own reproof." 

Adriana, though ashamed of her own conduct, still 
insisted on having her husband delivered up to her; 
but the abbess would suffer no person to enter her 
house, nor would she deliver up this unhappy man to 
the care of the jealous wife, determining herself to 
use gentle means for his recovery, and she retired 



THE COMEDY OP ERRORS. 209 

into her house again, and ordered her gates to be shut 
against them. 

During the course of this eventful day, in which so 
many errors had happened from the likeness the twin 
brothers bore to each other, old iEgeon's day of grace 
was passing away, it being now near sunset*, and at 
sunset he was doomed to die, if he could not pay the 
money. 

The place of his execution was near this convent, 
and here he arrived just as the abbess retired into the 
convent; the duke attending in person, that if any 
offered to pay the money, he might be present to 
pardon him. 

Adriana stopped this melancholy procession, and 
cried out to the duke for justice, telling him that the 
abbess had refused to deliver up her lunatic husband 
to her care. WJiile she was speaking, her real hus- 
band and his servant Dromio, who had got loose, came 
before the duke to demand justice, complaining that 
his wife had confined him on a false charge of lunacy, 
and telling in what manner he had broken his bands, 
and eluded the vigilance of his keepers. Adriana was 
strangely surprised to see her husband, when she thought 
he had been within the convent. 

iEgeon, seeing his son, concluded this was the son 
who had left him to go in search of his mother and 
his brother; and he felt secure that this dear son would 
readily pay the money demanded for his ransom. He 
therefore spoke to Antipholis in words of fatherly af- 
fection, with joyful hope that he should now be re- 
leased. But to the utter astonishment of iEgeon, his 
son denied all knowledge of him, as well he might, 
for this Antipholis had never seen his father since they 

Tales from Shakspeorc. 14 



210 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

were separated in the storm in his infancy; but while 
the poor oldiEgeon was in vain endeavouring to make 
his son acknowledge him, thinking surely that either 
his griefs and the anxieties he had suffered had so 
strangely altered him that has son did not know him, 
or else that he was ashamed to acknowledge his father 
in his misery; in the midst of this perplexity, the lady 
abbess and the other Antipholis and Dromio came out, 
and the wondering Adriana saw two husbands and two 
Dromios standing before her. 

And now these riddling errors, which had so per- 
plexed them all, were clearly made out. When the 
sluke saw the two Antipholises and the two Dromios 
both so exactly alike, he at once conjectured aright of 
these seeming mysteries, for he remembered the story 
iEgeon had told him in the morning; and he said, 
these men must be the two sons of iEgeon and their 
twin slaves. 

But now an unlooked-for joy indeed completed the 
history of iEgeon; and the tale he had in the morning 
told in sorrow, and under sentence of death, before 
the setting sun went down, was brought to a happy 
conclusion, for the venerable lady abbess made herself 
known to be the long-lost wife of iEgeon, and the 
fond mother of the two Antipholises. 

When the fishermen took the eldest Antipholis 
and Dromio away from her, she entered a nunnery, 
and by her wise and virtuous conduct, she was at 
length made lady abbess of this convent, and in dis- 
charging the rites of hospitality to an unhappy stranger 
she had unknowingly protected her own son. 

Joyful congratulations and affectionate greetings 
between these long separated parents and their chil- 



THE COMEDY 01' ERRORS. 211 

dren, made them for a while forget that JEgeon was 
yet under sentence of death; but when they were 
become a little calm, Antipholis of Ephesus offered 
the duke the ransom money for his father's life; but 
the duke freely pardoned iEgeon, and would not take 
the money. And the duke went with the abbess and 
her newly-found husband and children into the con- 
vent, to hear this happy family discourse at leisure of 
the blessed ending of their adverse fortunes. And the 
two Dromios' humble joy must not be forgotten; they 
had their congratulations and greetings too, and each 
Dromio pleasantly complimented his brother on his 
good looks, being well pleased to see his own person 
(as in a glass) show so handsome in his brother. 

Adriana had so well profited by the good counsel 
of her mother-in-law, that she never after cherished 
unjust suspicions," or was jealous of her husband. 

Antipholis of Syracuse married the fair Luciana, 
the sister of his brother's wife; and the good old 
iEgeon, with his wife and sons, lived at Ephesus 
many years. Nor did the unravelling of these per- 
plexities so entirely remove every ground of mistake 
for the future, but that sometimes, to remind them 
of adventures past, comical blunders would happen, 
and the one Antipholis, and the one Dromio, be mis- 
taken for the other, making altogether a pleasant and 
diverting Comedy of Errors. 



14* 



212 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



MEASURE FOE MEASURE. 



In the city of Vienna there once reigned a duke 
of such a mild and gentle temper, that he suffered his 
subjects to neglect the laws with impunity, and there 
was in particular one law, the existence of which was 
almost forgotten, the duke never having put it in 
force during his whole reign. This was a law dooming 
any man to the punishment of death, who should live 
with a woman that was not his wife-, and this law, 
through the lenity of the duke, being utterly dis- 
regarded, the holy institution of marriage became 
neglected, and complaints were every day made to the 
duke by the parents of the young ladies in Vienna, 
that their daughters had been seduced from their 
protection, and were living as the companions of 
single men. 

The good duke perceived with sorrow this growing 
evil among his subjects; but he thought that a sudden 
change in himself from the indulgence he had hitherto 
shown, to the strict severity requisite to check this 
abuse, would make his people (who had hitherto loved 
him) consider him as a tyrant: therefore he determined 
to absent himself a while from his dukedom, and de- 
pute another to the full exercise of his power, that the 
law against these dishonourable lovers might be put in 
effect, without giving offence by an unusual severity 
in his own person. 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 213 

Angelo, a man who bore the reputation of a saint 
in Vienna for his strict and rigid life, was chosen by 
the duke as a fit person to undertake this important 
charge; and when the duke imparted his design to 
lord Escalus, his chief counsellor, Escalus said, "If 
any man in Vienna be of worth to undergo such ample 
grace and honour, it is lord Angelo." And now the 
duke departed from Vienna under pretence of making 
a journey into Poland, leaving Angelo to act as the 
lord deputy in his absence; but the duke's absence 
was only a feigned one, for he privately returned to 
Vienna, habited like a friar, with the intent to watch 
unseen the conduct of the saintly-seeming Angelo. 

It happened just about the time that Angelo was 
invested with his new dignity, that a gentleman, whose 
name was Claudio, had seduced a young lady from 
her parents; and for this offence, by command of the 
new lord deputy, Claudio was taken up and committed 
to prison, and by virtue of the old law which had 
been so long neglected, Angelo sentenced Claudio to 
be beheaded. Great interest was made for the pardon 
of young Claudio, and the good old lord Escalus him- 
self interceded for him. "Alas," said he, "this gen- 
tleman whom I would save had an honourable father, 
for whose sake I pray you pardon the young man's 
transgression." But Angelo replied, "We must not 
make a scarecrow of the law, setting it up to frighten 
birds of prey, till custom, finding it harmless, makes 
it their perch, and not their terror. Sir, he must die." 

Lucio, the friend of Claudio, visited him in the 
prison, and Claudio said to him, "I pray you, Lucio, 
do me this kind service. Go to my sister Isabel, who 
this day proposes to enter the convent of Saint Clare; 



214 TALES PROM SHAKSPEARE. 

acquaint her with the clanger of my state; implore her 
that she make friends with the strict deputy; bid her 
go herself to Angelo. I have great hopes in that; for 
she can discourse with prosperous art, and well she 
can persuade; besides, there is a speechless dialect in 
youthful sorrow, such as moves men." 

Isabel, the sister of Claudio, had, as he said, that 
day entered upon her noviciate in the convent, and 
it was her intent, after passing through her probation 
as a novice, to take the veil, and she was inquiring of 
a nun concerning the rules of the convent, when they 
heard the voice of Lucio, who, as he entered that 
religious house, said, "Peace be in this place!" — 
"Who is it that speaks?" said Isabel. "It is a man's 
voice," replied the nun: "Gentle Isabel, go to him, 
and learn his business; you may, I may not. When 
you have taken the veil, you must not speak with 
men but in the presence of the prioress ; then if you 
speak you must not show your face, or if you show 
your face, you must not speak." — "And have you 
nuns no further privileges?" said Isabel. "Are not 
these large enough?" replied the nun. "Yes, truly," 
said Isabel: "I speak not as desiring more, but rather 
wishing a more strict restraint upon the sisterhood, the 
votarists of Saint Clare." Again they heard the voice 
of Lucio, and the nun said, "He calls again. I pray 
you answer him." Isabel then went out to Lucio, and 
in answer to his salutation, said, "Peace and Prosperity! 
Who is it that calls?" Then Lucio, approaching her 
with reverence, said, "Hail, virgin, if such you be, as 
the roses on your cheeks proclaim you are no less! 
can you bring me to the sight of Isabel, a novice of 
this place, and the fair sister to her unhappy brother 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 215 

Claudio?" — "Why her unhappy brother?" said Isabel, 
"let me ask! for I am that Isabel, and his sister." — 
"Fair and gentle lady," he replied, "your brother 
kindly greets you by me; he is in prison." — "Woe 
is me! for what?" said Isabel. Lucio then told her, 
Claudio was imprisoned for seducing a young maiden. 
"Ah," said she, "I fear it is my cousin Juliet." Juliet 
and Isabel were not related, but they called each other 
cousin in remembrance of their school days' friendship; 
and as Isabel knew that Juliet loved Claudio, she 
feared she had been led by her affection for him into 
this transgression. "She it is," replied Lucio. "Why 
then let my brother marry Juliet," said Isabel. Lucio 
replied that Claudio would gladly marry Juliet, but 
that the lord deputy had sentenced him to die for his 
offence; "Unless," said he, "you have the grace by 
your fair prayer to soften Angelo, and that is my 
business between yoii and your poor brother." — 
"Alas!" said Isabel, "what poor ability is there in me 
to do him good? I doubt I have no power to move 
Angelo." — "Our doubts are traitors," said Lucio, 
"and make us lose the good we might often win, by 
fearing to attempt it. G-o to lord Angelo! When 
maidens sue, and kneel, and weep, men give like 
gods." — "I will see what I can do," said Isabel: 
"I will but stay to give the prioress notice of the 
affair, and then I will go to Angelo. Commend me 
to my brother: soon at night I will send him word of 
my success." 

Isabel hastened to the palace, and threw herself on 
her knees before Angelo, saying, "I am a woful suitor 
to your honour, if it will please your honour to hear 
me." — "Well, what is your suit?" said Angelo. She 



216 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

then made her petition in the most moving terms for 
her brother's life. But Angelo said, "Maiden, there is 
no remedy, your brother is sentenced, and he must 
die." — "0 just, but severe law," said Isabel: "I had 
a brother then — Heaven keep your honour!" and she 
was about to depart. But Lucio, who had accompanied 
her, said, "Give it not over so-, return to him again, 
entreat him, kneel down before him, hang upon his 
gown. You are too cold; if you should need a pin, 
you could not with a more tame tongue desire it." 
Then again Isabel on her knees implored for mercy." 
"He is sentenced," said Angelo: "it is too late." — 
"Too late!" said Isabel: "Why, no: I that do speak a 
word may call it back again. Believe this, my lord, 
no ceremony that to great ones belongs, not the king's 
crown, nor the deputed sword, the marshal's trun- 
cheon, nor the judge's robe, becomes them with one 
half so good a grace as mercy does." — "Pray you 
begone," said Angelo. But still Isabel entreated; and 
she said, "If my brother had been as you, and you as 
he, you might have slipped like him, but he, like you, 
would not have been so stern. I would to heaven I 
had your power, and you were Isabel. Should it then 
be thus? No, I would tell you what it were to be a 
judge, and what a prisoner." — "Be content, fair 
maid!" said Angelo: "it is the law, not I, condemns 
your brother. Were he my kinsman, my brother, or 
my son, it should be thus with him. He must die to- 
morrow." — "To-morrow?" said Isabel; "Oh, that is 
sudden: spare him, spare him; he is not prepared for 
death. Even for our kitchens we kill the fowl in 
season; shall we serve Heaven with less respect than 
we minister to our gross selves? Good, good my lord, 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 217 

bethink you, none have died for my brother's offence, 
though many have committed it. So you would be 
the first that gives this sentence, and he the first that 
suffers it. Go to your own bosom, my lord; knock 
there, and ask your heart what it does know that is 
like my brother's fault; if it confess a natural guilti- 
ness such as his is, let it not sound a thought against 
my brother's life ! " Her last words more moved Angelo 
than all she had before said, for the beauty of Isabel 
had raised a guilty passion in his heart, and he began 
to form thoughts of dishonourable love, such as Claudio's 
crime had been; and the conflict in his mind made him 
to turn away from Isabel; but she called him back, 
saying, "Gentle my lord, turn back; hark, how I will 
bribe you. Good my lord, turn back!" — "How, 
bribe me!" said Angelo, astonished that she should 
think of offering him a bribe. "Ay," said Isabel, 
"with such gifts that Heaven itself shall share with 
you; not with golden treasures, or those glittering 
stones, whose price is either rich or poor as fancy 
values them, but with true prayers that shall be up to 
Heaven before sunrise, — prayers from preserved souls, 
from fasting maids whose minds are dedicated to nothing 
temporal." — "Well, come to me to-morrow," said 
Angelo. And for this short respite of her brother's 
life, and for this permission that she might be heard 
again, she left him with the joyful hope that she should 
at last prevail over his stern nature: and as she went 
away she said, "Heaven keep your honour safe! 
Heaven save your honour!" Which when Angelo 
heard, he said within his heart, "Amen, I would be 
saved from thee and from thy virtues:" and then, 
affrighted at his own evil thoughts, he said, "What is 



218 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

this? What is this? Do I love her, that I desire to 
hear her speak again, and feast upon her eyes? What 
is it I dream on? The cunning enemy of mankind, to 
catch a saint, with saints does bait the hook. Never 
could an immodest woman once stir my temper, but 
this virtuous woman subdues me quite. Even till now, 
when men were fond, I smiled and wondered at them." 

In the guilty conflict in his mind Angelo suffered 
more that night than the prisoner he had so severely 
sentenced-, for in the prison Claudio was visited by the 
good duke, who, in his friar's habit, taught the young 
man the way to heaven, preaching to him the words 
of penitence and peace. But Angelo felt all the pangs 
of irresolute guilt: now wishing to seduce Isabel from 
the paths of innocence and honour, and now suffering 
remorse and horror for a crime as yet but intentional. 
But in the end his evil thoughts prevailed; and he 
who had so lately started at the offer of a bribe, re- 
solved to tempt this maiden with so high a bribe, as 
she might not be able to resist, even with the precious 
gift of her dear brother's life. 

When Isabel came in the morning, Angelo desired 
she might be admitted alone to his presence: and being 
there, he said to her, if she would yield to him her 
virgin honour, and transgress even as Juliet had done 
with Claudio, he would give her her brother's life: 
"For," said he, "I love you, Isabel." — "My brother," 
said Isabel, "did so love Juliet, and yet you tell me 
he shall die for it." — "Bat," said Angelo, "Claudio 
shall not die, if you will consent to visit me by stealth 
at night, even as Juliet left her father's house at night 
to come to Claudio." Isabel, in amazement at his 
words, that he should tempt her to the same fault for 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 219 

which he passed sentence of death upon her brother, 
said, "I would do as much for my poor brother an for 
myself; that is, were I under sentence of death, the 
impression of keen whips I would wear as rubies, and 
go to my death as to a bed that longing I had been 
sick for, ere I would yield myself up to this shame." 
And then she told him, she hoped he only spoke these 
words to try her virtue. But he said, "Believe me, on 
my honour, my words express my purpose." Isabel, 
angered to the heart to hear him use the word Honour 
to express such dishonourable purposes, said, "Ha! 
little honour to be much believed; and most pernicious 
purpose. I will proclaim thee, Angelo, look for it! 
Sign me a present pardon for my brother, or I will 
tell the world aloud what man thou art!" — "Who 
will believe you, Isabel?" said Angelo; "my unsoiled 
name, the au§tereness of my life, my word vouched 
against yours, will outweigh your accusation. Redeem 
your brother by yielding to my will, or he shall die 
to-morrow. As for you, say what you can, my false 
will overweigh your true story. Answer me to-mor- 
row." 

"To whom should I complain? Did I tell this, 
who would believe me?" said Isabel, as she went to- 
wards the dreary prison where her brother was con- 
fined. When she arrived there, her brother was in 
pious conversation with the duke, who, in his friar's 
habit had also visited Juliet, and brought both these 
guilty lovers to a proper sense of their fault; and un- 
happy Juliet with tears and a true remorse confessed, 
that she was more to blame than Claudio, in that she 
willingly consented to his dishonourable solicitations. 

As Isabel entered the room where Claudio was 



220 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

confined, she said, "Peace be here, grace, and good 
company!" — "Who is there?" said the disguised 
duke: "come in; the wish deserves a welcome." -- 
"My business is a word or two with Claudio," said 
Isabel. Then the duke left them together, and de- 
sired the provost, who had the charge of the prisoners, 
to place him where he might overhear their conver- 
sation. 

"Now, sister, what is the comfort?" said Claudio. 
Isabel told him he must prepare for death on the mor- 
row. "Is there no remedy?" said Claudio. — "Yes, 
brother," replied Isabel, "there is; but such a one, as 
if you consented to it would strip your honour from 
you, and leave you naked." — "Let me know the 
point," said Claudio. "0, I do fear you, Claudio!" 
replied his sister; "and I quake, lest you should wish 
to live, and more respect the trifling term of six or 
seven winters added to your life, than your perpetual 
honour! Do you dare to die? The sense of death is 
most in apprehension, and the poor beetle that we 
tread upon, feels a pang as great as when a giant 
dies." "Why do you give me this shame?" said 
Claudio. "Think you I can fetch a resolution from 
flowery tenderness? If I must die, I will encounter 
darkness as a bride, and hug it in my arms." — 
"There spoke my brother," said Isabel; "there my 
fathers grave did utter forth a voice. Yes, you must 
die; yet would you think it, Claudio! this outward 
sainted deputy, if I would yield to him my virgin 
honour, would grant your life. were it but my life, 
I would lay it down for your deliverance as frankly as 
a pin!" — "Thanks, dear Isabel," said Claudio. "Be 
ready to die to-morrow," said Isabel. "Death is a 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 221 

fearful tiling," said Claudio. "And shamed life a 
hateful," replied his sister. But the thoughts of death 
now overcame the constancy of Claudio's temper, and 
terrors, such as the guilty only at their deaths do 
know, assailing him, he cried out, "Sweet sister, let 
me live! The sin you do to save a brother's life, 
nature dispenses with the deed so far, that it becomes 
a virtue." — "0 faithless coward! dishonest wretch!" 
said Isabel: "would you preserve your life by your 
sister's shame? fie, fie, fie! I thought, my brother, 
you had in you such a mind of honour, that had you 
twenty heads to render up on twenty blocks, you would 
have yielded them up all, before your sister should 
stoop to such dishonour." "Nay, hear me, Isabel!" 
said Claudio. But what he would have said in de- 
fence of his weakness, in desiring to live by the dis- 
honour of his virtuous sister, was interrupted by the 
entrance of the duke; who said, "Claudio, I have over- 
heard what has passed between you and your sister. 
Angelo had never the purpose to corrupt her; what he 
said, has only been to make trial of her virtue. She 
having the truth of honour in her, has given him that 
gracious denial which he is most glad to receive. 
There is no hope that he will pardon you; therefore 
pass your hours in prayer, and make ready for death." 
Then Claudio repented of his weakness, and said, 
"Let me ask my sister's pardon! I am so out of love 
with life, that I will sue to be rid of it." And Claudio 
retired, overwhelmed with shame and sorrow for his 
fault. 

The duke being now alone with Isabel, commended 
her virtuous resolution, saying, "The hand that made 
you fair has made you good." — "0," said Isabel, 



222 TALES PROM SHAKSPEARE. 

"how much is the good duke deceived in Angelo! if 
ever he return, and I can speak to him, I will dis- 
cover his government." Isahel knew not that she 
was even now making the discovery she threatened. 
The duke replied, "That shall not he much amiss; 
yet as the matter now stands, Angelo will repel your 
accusation; therefore lend an attentive ear to my ad- 
visings. I helieve that you may most righteously do 
a poor wronged lady a merited benefit, redeem your 
brother from the angry law, do no stain to your own 
most gracious person, and much please the absent 
duke, if perad venture he shall ever return to have 
notice of this business." Isabel said, she had a spirit 
to do anything he desired, provided it was nothing 
wrong. "Virtue is bold, and never fearful," said the 
duke: and then he asked her, if she had ever heard of 
Mariana, the sister of Frederick, the great soldier who 
was drowned at sea. "I have heard of the lady," said 
Isabel, "and good words went with her name." — 
"This lady," said the duke, "is the wife of Angelo; 
but her marriage dowry was on board the vessel in 
which her brother perished, and mark how heavily 
this befell to the poor gentlewoman! for, beside the 
loss of a most noble and renowned brother, who in his 
love towards her was ever most kind and natural, in 
the wreck of her fortune she lost the affections of her 
husband, the well-seeming Angelo; who pretending to 
discover some dishonour in this honourable lady 
(though the true cause was the loss of her dowry) left 
her in her tears, and dried not one of them with his 
comfort. His unjust unkindness, that in all reason 
should have quenched her love, has, like an impedi- 
ment in the current, made it more unruly, and Ma- 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE, 223 

riaua loves her cruel husband with the full continuance 
of her first affection." The duke then more plainly 
unfolded his plan. It was, that Isabel should go to 
lord Angelo, and seemingly consent to come to him as 
he desired, at midnight; that by this means she would 
obtain the promised pardon; and that Mariana should 
go in her stead to the appointment, and pass herself 
upon Angelo in the dark for Isabel. "Nor, gentle 
daughter," said the feigned friar, "fear you to do this 
thing; Angelo is her husband, and to bring them thus 
together is no sin." Isabel being pleased with this 
project, departed to do as he directed her; and he went 
to apprise Mariana of their intention. He had before 
this time visited this unhappy lady in his assumed 
character, giving her religious instruction and friendly 
consolation, at which times he had learned her sad 
story from her* own lips; and now she, looking upon 
him as a holy man, readily consented to be directed by 
him in this undertaking. 

When Isabel returned from her interview with An- 
gelo, to the house of Mariana, where the duke had 
appointed her to meet him, he said, "Well met, and 
in good time; what is the news from this good de- 
puty?" Isabel related the manner in which she had 
settled the affair. "Angelo," said she, "has a garden 
surrounded with a brick wall, on the western side of 
which is a vineyard, and to that vineyard is a gate." 
And then she showed to the duke and Mariana two 
keys that Angelo had given her; and she said, "This 
bigger key opens the vineyard gate; this other a little 
door which leads from the vineyard to the garden. 
There I have made my promise at the dead of the 
night to call upon him, and have got from him his 



224 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

word of assurance for my brother's life. I have taken 
a due and wary note of the place; and with whisper- 
ing and most guilty diligence he showed me the way 
twice over." — "Are there no other tokens agreed 
upon between you, that Mariana must observe?" said 
the duke. "No, none," said Isabel, "only to go when 
it is dark. I have told him my time can be but 
short; for I have made him think a servant comes 
along with me, and that this servant is persuaded 
I come about my brother." The duke recommended 
her discreet management, and she, turning to Mariana, 
said, "Little have you to say to Angelo, when you de- 
part from him, but soft and low, Remember now my 
brother I" 

Mariana was that night conducted to the appointed 
place by Isabel, who rejoiced that she had, as she 
supposed, by this device preserved both her brother's 
life and her own honour. But that her brother's life 
was safe the duke was not well satisfied, and there- 
fore at midnight he again repaired to the prison, and 
it was well for Claudio that he did so, else would 
Claudio have that night been beheaded; for soon after 
the duke entered the prison, an order came from the 
cruel deputy, commanding that Claudio should be be- 
headed, and his head sent to him by five o'clock in the 
morning. But the duke persuaded the provost to put 
off the execution of Claudio, and to deceive Angelo, 
by sending him the head of a man who died that 
morning in the prison. And to prevail upon the pro- 
vost to agree to this, the duke, whom still the provost 
suspected not to be anything more or greater than he 
seemed, showed the provost a letter written with the 
duke's hand, and sealed with his seal, which when the 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 225 

provost saw, lie concluded this friar must have some 
secret order from the absent duke, and therefore he 
consented to spare Claudio; and he cut off the dead 
man's head, and carried it to Angelo. 

Then the duke in his own name, wrote to Angelo 
a letter, saying, that certain accidents had put a stop 
to his journey, and that he should be in Vienna by 
the following morning, requiring Angelo to meet him 
at the entrance of the city, there to deliver up his 
authority; and the duke also commanded it to be pro- 
claimed, that if any of his subjects craved redress for 
injustice, they should exhibit their petitions in the 
street on his first entrance into the city. 

Early in the morning Isabel came to the prison, and 
the duke, who there awaited her coming, for secret 
reasons thought it good to tell her that Claudio was 
beheaded; therefore when Isabel inquired if Angelo 
had sent the pardon for her brother, he said, "Angelo 
has released Claudio from this world. His head is off, 
and sent to the deputy." The much-grieved sister 
cried out, u O unhappy Claudio, wretched Isabel, inju- 
rious world, most wicked Angelo!" The seeming friar 
bid her take comfort, and when she was become a 
little calm, he acquainted her with the near prospect 
of the duke's return, and told her in what manner she 
should proceed in preferring her complaint against An- 
gelo; and he bade her not fear if the cause should 
seem to go against her for a while. Leaving Isa- 
bel sufficiently instructed, he next went to Mariana, 
and gave her counsel in what manner she also should 
act. 

Then the duke laid aside his friar's habit, and in 
his own royal robes, amidst a joyful crowd of his faith- 
Tales from Shakspeare. 15 



226 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

ful subjects assembled to greet his arrival, entered 
the city of Vienna, where he was met by Angelo, who 
delivered up his authority in the proper form. And 
there came Isabel, in the manner of a petitioner for 
redress, and said, "Justice, most royal duke! I am 
the sister of one Claudio, who for the seducing a 
young maid was condemned to lose his head. I made 
my suit to lord Angelo for my brother's pardon. It 
were needless to tell your grace how I prayed and 
kneeled, how he repelled me, and how I replied; for 
this was of much length. The vile conclusion I now 
begin with grief and shame to utter. Angelo would 
not but by my yielding to his dishonourable love re- 
lease my brother; and after much debate within my- 
self, ray sisterly remorse overcame my virtue, and 
I did yield to him. But the next morning betimes, 
Angelo, forfeiting his promise, sent a warrant for my 
poor brother's head!" The duke affected to disbelieve 
her story; and Angelo said that grief for her brother's 
death, who had suffered by the due course of the law, 
had disordered her senses. And now another suitor 
approached, which was Mariana; and Mariana said, 
"Noble prince, as there comes light from heaven, and 
truth from breath, as there is sense in truth, and truth 
in virtue, I am this man's wife, and, my good lord, 
the words of Isabel are false; for the night she says 
she was with Angelo, I passed that night with him in 
the garden-house. As this is true, let me in safety 
rise, or else for ever be fixed here a marble monu- 
ment." Then did Isabel appeal for the truth of what 
she had said to friar Lodowick, that being the name 
the duke had assumed in* his disguise. Isabel and 
Mariana had both obeyed his instructions in what they 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 227 

said, the duke intending that the innocence of Isabel 
should be plainly proved in that public manner before 
the whole city of Vienna; but Angelo little thought 
that it was from such a cause that they thus differed 
in their story, and he hoped from their contradictory 
evidence to be able to clear himself from the accusa- 
tion of Isabel; and he said, assuming the look of 
offended innocence, "I did but smile till now; but, good 
my lord, my patience here is touched, and I perceive 
these poor distracted women are but the instruments of 
some greater one, who sets them on. Let me have 
way, my lord, to find this practice out." — "Ay, with 
all my heart," said the duke, "and punish them to the 
height of your pleasure. You , lord Escalus , sit with 
lord Angelo, lend him your pains to discover this 
abuse; the friar is sent for that set them on, and 
when he comes*, do with your injuries as may seem 
best in any chatisement. I for a while will leave you, 
but stir not you, lord Angelo, till you have well de- 
termined upon this slander." The duke then went 
away, leaving Angelo well pleased to be deputed judge 
and umpire in his own cause. But the duke was ab- 
sent only while he threw off his royal robes and put 
on his friar's habit; and in that disguise again he pre- 
sented himself before Angelo and Escalus: and the 
good old Escalus, who thought Angelo had been falsely 
accused, said to the supposed friar, "Come, sir, did you 
set these women on to slander lord Angelo?" He re- 
plied, "Where is the duke? It is he should hear me 
speak." Escalus said, "The duke is in us, and we 
will hear you. Speak justly." — "Boldly at least," 
retorted the friar; and then he blamed the duke for 
leaving the cause of Isabel in the hands of him she 

15* 



228 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

had accused, and spoke so freely of many corrupt 
practices he had observed, while, as he said, he had 
been a looker-on in Vienna, that Escalus threatened 
him with the torture for speaking words against the 
state, and for censuring the conduct of the duke, and 
ordered him to be taken away to prison. Then, to 
the amazement of all present, and to the utter con- 
fusion of Angelo, the supposed friar threw off his dis- 
guise, and they saw it was the duke himself. 

The duke first addressed Isabel. He said to her, 
"Come hither, Isabel. Your friar is now your prince, 
but with my habit I have not changed my heart. I 
am still devoted to your service." — "Q give me par- 
don," said Isabel, "that I, your vassal, have employed 
and troubled your unknown sovereignty." He answered 
that he had most need of forgiveness from her, for not 
having prevented the death of her brother — for not 
yet would he tell her that Claudio was living; mean- 
ing first to make a further trial of her goodness. Angelo 
now knew the duke had been a secret witness of his 
bad deeds, and he said, "0 my dread lord, I should 
be guiltier than my guiltiness, to think I can be un- 
discernible, when I perceive your grace, like power 
divine, has looked upon my actions. Then, good prince, 
no longer prolong my shame, but let my trial be my 
own confession. Immediate sentence and death is all 
the grace I beg." The duke replied, "Angelo, thy 
faults are manifest. We do condemn thee to the very 
block where Claudio stooped to death; and with like 
haste away with him; and for his possessions, Mariana, 
we do instate and widow you withal, to buy you a 
better husband." — "0 my dear lord," said Mariana, 
"I crave no other nor no better man:" and then on 



MEASURE FOB MEASURE. 229 

her knees, even as Isabel had begged the life of 
Claudio, did this kind wife of an ungrateful husband 
beg the life of Angelo; and she said, "Gentle my 
liege, good my lord! Sweet Isabel, take my part! 
Lend me your knees, and all my life to come I will 
lend you all my life, to do you service!" The duke 
said, "Against all sense you importune her. Should 
Isabel kneel down to beg for mercy, her brother's 
ghost would break his paved bed, and take her hence 
in horror." Still Mariana said, "Isabel, sweet Isabel, 
do but kneel by me, hold up your hand, say nothing! 
I will speak all. They say, best men are moulded 
out of faults, and for the most part become much the 
better for being a little bad. So may my husband. 
Oh, Isabel, will you not lend a knee?" The duke then 
said, "He dies for Claudio." But much pleased was 
the good duke," when his own Isabel, from whom he 
expected all gracious and honourable acts, kneeled 
down before him, and said, "Most bounteous sir, look, 
if it please you, on this man condemned, as if my 
brother lived. I partly think a due sincerity governed 
his deeds, till he did look on me. Since it is so, let 
him not die! My brother had but justice, in that he 
did the thing for which he died." 

The duke, as the best reply he could make to this 
noble petitioner for her enemy's life, sending for Claudio 
from his prison-house, where he lay doubtful of his 
destiny, presented to her this lamented brother living; 
and he said to Isabel, "Give me your hand. Isabel; 
for your lovely sake I pardon Claudio. Say you will 
be mine, and he shall be my brother too." By this 
time lord Angelo perceived he was safe; and the duke, 
observing his eye to brighten up a little, said, "Well, 



230 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Angelo, look that you love your wife*, her worth has 
obtained your pardon: joy to you, Mariana! Love her, 
Angelo! I have confessed her, and know her virtue." 
Angelo remembered, when dressed in a little brief 
authority, how hard his heart had been, and felt how 
sweet is mercy. 

The duke commanded Claudio to marry Juliet, and 
offered himself again to the acceptance of Isabel, whose 
virtuous and noble conduct had won her prince's heart. 
Isabel, not having taken the veil, was free to marry, 
and the friendly offices, while hid under the disguise 
of a humble friar, which the noble duke had done for 
her, made her with grateful joy accept the honour he 
offered her* and when she became duchess of Vienna, 
the excellent example of the virtuous Isabel worked 
such a complete reformation among the young ladies 
of that city, that from that time none ever fell into 
the transgression of Juliet, the repentant wife of the 
reformed Claudio. And the mercy-loving duke long 
reigned with his beloved Isabel, the happiest of hus- 
bands and of princes. 



TWELFTH NIGHT; OE, WHAT YOU WILL. 231 



TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 



Sebastian and his sister Viola, a young gentleman 
and lady of Messaline, were twins, and (which was ac- 
counted a great wonder) from their birth they so much 
resembled each other, that, but for the difference in 
their dress, they could not be known apart. They were 
both born in one hour, and in one hour they were both 
in danger of perishing, for they were shipwrecked on 
the coast of Ulyria, as they were making a sea-voyage 
together. The ship, on board of which they were, 
split on a rock in a violent storm, and a very small 
number of the ship's company escaped with their lives. 
The captain of the vessel, with a few of the sailors 
that were saved, got to land in a small boat, and with 
them they brought Viola safe on shore, where she, 
poor lady, instead of rejoicing at her own deliverance, 
began to lament her brother's loss; but the captain 
comforted her with the assurance, that he had seen her 
brother, when the ship split, fasten himself to a strong 
mast, on which, as long as he could see anything of 
him for the distance, he perceived him borne up above 
the waves. Viola was much consoled by the hope this 
account gave her, and now considered how she was to 
dispose of herself in a strange country, so far from 
home; and she asked the captain if he knew anything 
of Ulyria. "Ay, very well, madam," replied the cap- 
tain, "for I was born not three hours' travel from this 



232 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

place." — "Who governs here?" said Viola. The 
captain told her, Illyria was governed by Orsino, a 
duke noble in nature as well as dignity. Viola said, 
she had heard her father speak of Orsino, and that he 
was unmarried then. "And he is so now," said the 
captain; "or was so very lately, for but a month ago I 
went from here, and then it was the general talk (as 
you know what great ones do, the people will prattle 
of,) that Orsino sought the love of fair Olivia, a virtuous 
maid, the daughter of a count who died twelve months 
ago, leaving Olivia to the protection of her brother, 
who shortly after died also; and for the love of this 
dear brother, they say, she has adjured the sight and 
company of men." Viola, who was herself in such 
a sad affliction for her brother's loss, wished she could 
live with this lady, who so tenderly mourned a brother's 
death. She asked the captain if he could introduce 
her to Olivia, saying she would willingly serve this 
lady. But he replied, this would be a hard thing to 
accomplish, because the lady Olivia would admit no 
person into her house since her brother's death, not 
even the duke himself. Then Viola formed another 
project in her mind, which was, in a man's habit, to 
serve the duke Orsino as a page. It was a strange 
fancy in a young lady to put on male attire, and pass 
for a boy; but the forlorn and unprotected state of 
Viola, who was young and of uncommon beauty, alone, 
and in a foreign land, must plead her excuse. 

She having observed a fair behaviour in the cap- 
tain, and that he showed a friendly concern for her 
welfare, entrusted him with her design, and he readily 
engaged to assist her. Viola gave him money, and 
directed him to furnish her with suitable apparel, 



TWELFTH NIGHTJ OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 233 

ordering her clothes to be made of the same colour 
and in the same fashion her brother Sebastian used to 
wear, and when she was dressed in her manly garb, 
she looked so exactly like her brother, that some 
strange errors happened by means of their being mis- 
taken for each other; for, as will afterwards appear, 
Sebastion was also saved. 

Viola's good friend, the captain, when he had trans- 
formed this pretty lady into a gentleman, having some 
interest at court, got her presented to Orsino under the 
feigned name of Cesario. The duke was wonderfully 
pleased with the address and graceful deportment of 
this handsome youth, and made Cesario one of his 
pages, that being the office Viola wished to obtain: 
and she so well fulfilled the duties of her new station, 
and showed such a ready observance and faithful 
attachment to her lord, that she soon became his most 
favoured attendant. To Cesario Orsino confided the 
whole history of his love for the lady Olivia. To 
Cesario he told the long and unsuccessful suit he had 
made to one who, rejecting his long services, and 
despising his person, refused to admit him to her pre- 
sence; and for the love of this lady who had so un- 
kindly treated him, the noble Orsino, forsaking the 
sports of the field and all manly exercises in which he 
used to delight, passed his hours in ignoble sloth, 
listening to the effeminate sounds of soft music, gentle 
airs, and passionate love-songs; and neglecting the com- 
pany of the wise and learned lords with whom he used 
to associate, he was now all day long conversing with 
young Cesario. Unmeet companion no doubt his grave 
courtiers thought Cesario was for their once noble 
master, the great duke Orsino, 



234 TALES PROM SHAKSPEARE. 

It is a dangerous matter for young maidens to be 
the confidants of handsome young dukes; which Viola 
too soon found to her sorrow, for all that Orsino told 
her he endured for Olivia, she presently perceived she 
suffered for the love of him; and much it moved her 
wonder, that Olivia could be so regardless of this her 
peerless lord and master, whom she thought no one 
could behold without the deepest admiration, and she 
ventured gently to hint to Orsino, that it was pity he 
should affect a lady who was so blind to his worthy 
qualities; and she said, "If a lady were to love you, 
my lord, as you love Olivia (and perhaps there may 
be one who does) , if you could not love her in return, 
would you not tell her that you could not love, and 
must she not be content with this answer?" But Orsino 
would not admit of this reasoning, for he denied that 
it was possible for any woman to love as he did. He 
said, no woman's heart was big enough to hold so 
much love, and therefore it was unfair to compare the 
love of any lady for him, to his love for Olivia. Now 
though Viola had the utmost deference for the duke's 
opinions, she could not help thinking this was not quite 
true, for she thought her heart had full as much love 
in it as Orsino's had; and she said, "Ah, but I know, 
my lord." — "What do you know, Cesario?" said 
Orsino. "Too well I know," replied Viola, "what love 
women may owe to men. They are as true of heart 
as we are. My father had a daughter loved a man, 
as I perhaps, were I a woman, should love your lord- 
ship." — "And what is her history?" said Orsino. 
"A blank, my lord," replied Viola: "she never told 
her love, but let concealment, like a worm in the bud, 
prey on her damask cheek. She pined in thought, 



TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 235 

and with a green and yellow melancholy, she sat like 
Patience on a monument, smiling at Grief." The duke 
inquired if this lady died of her love, but to this 
question Viola returned an evasive answer; as probably 
she had feigned the story, to speak words expressive 
of the secret love and silent grief she suffered for 
Orsino. 

While they were talking, a gentleman entered 
whom the duke had sent to Olivia, and he said, "So 
please you, my lord, I might not be admitted to the 
lady, but by her handmaid she returned you this an- 
swer: Until seven years hence, the element itself shall 
not behold her face; but like a cloistress she will walk 
veiled, watering her chamber with her tears for the 
sad remembrance of her dead brother." On hearing 
this, the duke exclaimed, "0 she that has a heart of 
this fine frame, to pay this debt of love to a dead 
brother, how will she love, when the rich golden shaft 
has touched her heart!" And then he said to Viola, 
"You know, Cesario, I have told you all the secrets 
of my heart; therefore, good youth, go to Olivia's 
house. Be not denied access; stand at her doors, and 
tell her, there your fixed foot shall grow till you have 
audience." — "And if I do speak to her, my lord, 
what then?" said Viola. "0 then," replied Orsino, 
"unfold to her the passion of my love. Make a long 
discourse to her of my dear faith. It will well be- 
come you to act my woes, for she will attend more to 
you than to one of graver aspect." 

Away then went Viola; but not willingly did she 
undertake this courtship, for she was to woo a lady to 
become a wife to him she wished to marry: but having 
undertaken the affair, she performed it with fidelity; 



236 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

and Olivia soon heard that a youth was at her door 
who insisted upon being admitted to her presence. 
"I told him," said the servant, "that you were sick: 
he said he knew you were, and therefore he came to 
speak with you. I told him that you were asleep: he 
seemed to have a foreknowledge of that too, and said, 
that therefore he must speak with you. What is to be 
said to him, lady? for he seems fortified against all 
denial, and will speak with you, whether you will or 
no." Olivia, curious to see who this peremptory mes- 
senger might be, desired he might be admitted; and 
throwing her veil over her face, she said she would 
once more hear Orsino's embassy, not doubting but 
that he came from the duke, by his importunity. Viola, 
entering, put on the most manly air she could assume, 
and affecting the fine courtier language of great men's 
pages, she said to the veiled lady, "Most radiant, ex- 
quisite, and matchless beauty, I pray you tell me if 
you are the lady of the house; for I should be sorry 
to cast away my speech upon another; for besides that 
it is excellently well penned, I have taken great pains 
to learn it." — "Whence come you, sir?" said Olivia. 
"I can say little more than I have studied," replied 
Viola; "and that question is out of my part." — "Are 
you a comedian?" said Olivia. "No," replied Viola; 
"and yet I am not that which I play;" meaning that 
she, being a woman, feigned herself to be a man. And 
again she asked Olivia if she were the lady of the 
house. Olivia said she was; and then Viola, having 
more curiosity to see her rival's features, than haste 
to deliver her master's message, said, "Good madam, 
let me see your face." With this bold request Olivia 
was not averse to comply; for this haughty beauty, 



TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 237 

whom the duke Orsino had loved so long in vain, at 
first sight conceived a passion for the supposed page, 
the humble Cesario. 

When Viola asked to see her face, Olivia said, 
"Have you any commission from your lord and master 
to negotiate with my face?" And then, forgetting her 
determination to go veiled for seven long years, she 
drew aside her veil, saying, "But I will draw the cur- 
tain and show the picture. Is it not well done?" 
Viola replied, "It is beauty truly mixed; the red and 
white upon your cheeks is by Nature's own cunning 
hand laid on. You are the most cruel lady living, if 
you will lead these graces to the grave, and leave the 
world no copy." — "0, sir," replied Olivia, "I will 
not be so cruel. The world may have an inventory 
of my beauty. As, item, two lips, indifferent red; item, 
two gray eyes, with lids to them; one neck; one chin; 
and so forth. Were you sent here to praise me?" 
Viola replied, "I see what you are: you are too proud, 
but you are fair. My lord and master loves you. 
such a love could but be recompensed, though you 
were crowned the queen of beauty; for Orsino loves 
you with adoration and with tears, with groans that 
thunder love, and sighs of fire." — "Your lord," said 
Olivia, "knows well my mind. I cannot love him; 
yet I doubt not he is virtuous; I know him to be 
noble and of high estate, of fresh and spotless youth. 
All voices proclaim him learned, courteous, and valiant,* 
yet I cannot love him, he might have taken his an- 
swer long ago." — "If I did love you as my master 
does," said Viola, "I would make me a willow cabin 
at your gates, and call upon your name, I would write 
complaining sonnets on Olivia, and sing them in the 



238 TALES PROM SHAKSPEARE. 

dead of the night; your name should sound among 
the hills, and I would make Echo, the babbling gossip 
of the air, cry out Olivia. you should not rest be- 
tween the elements of earth and air, but you should 
pity me." — "You might do much," said Olivia: "what 
is your parentage?" Viola replied, "Above my for- 
tunes, yet my state is well. I am a gentleman." Olivia 
now reluctantly dismissed Viola, saying, "Go to your 
master, and tell him, I cannot love him. Let him send 
no more, unless perchance you come again to tell me 
how he takes it." And Viola departed, bidding the 
lady farewell by the name of Fair Cruelty. When 
she was gone, Olivia repeated the words, Above my for- 
tunes, yet my state is well. I am a gentleman. And 
she said aloud, "I will be sworn he is; his tongue, 
his face, his limbs, action, and spirit, plainly show he 
is a gentleman." And then she wished Cesario was 
the duke; and perceiving the fast hold he had taken 
on her affections, she blamed herself for her sudden 
love; but the gentle blame which people lay upon 
their own faults has no deep root; and presently the 
noble lady Olivia so far forgot the inequality between 
her fortunes and those of this seeming page, as well as 
the maidenly reserve which is the chief ornament of a 
lady's character, that she resolved to court the love of 
young Cesario, and sent a servant after him with a 
diamond ring, under the pretence that he had left it 
with her as a present from Orsino. She hoped by 
thus artfully making Cesario a present of the ring, she 
should give him some intimation of her design; and 
truly it did make Viola suspect; for knowing that 
Orsino had sent no ring by her, she began to recollect 
that Olivia's looks and manner were expressive of ad- 



TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 239 

miration, and she presently guessed her master's mis- 
tress had fallen in love with her. "Alas," said she, 
"the poor lady might as well love a dream. Disguise 
I see is wicked, for it has caused Olivia to breathe as 
fruitless sighs for me, as I do for Orsino." 

Viola returned to Orsino's palace, and related to 
her lord the ill success of the negotiation, repeating 
the command of Olivia, that the duke should trouble 
her no more. Yet still the duke persisted in hoping 
that the gentle Cesario would in time be able to per- 
suade her to show some pity, and therefore he bade 
him he should go to her again the next day. In the 
mean time, to pass away the tedious interval, he com- 
manded a song which he loved to be sung; and he 
said, "My good Cesario, when I heard that song last 
night, methought it did relieve my passion much. Mark 
it, Cesario, it -is old and plain. The spinsters and the 
knitters when they sit in the sun, and the young 
maids that weave their thread with bone, chant this 
song. It is silly, yet I love it, for it tells of the in- 
nocence of love in the old times." 



SONG. 

Come away, come away, Death , 

And in sad cypress let me be laid ; 
Fly away, fly away, breath , 

I am slain by a fair cruel maid. 
My shroud of white stuck all with yew , O prepare it , 
My part of death no one so true did share it. 

Not a flower, not a flower sweet , 

On my black coffin let there be strown : 
Not a friend, not a friend greet 

My poor corpse , where my bones shall be thrown. 
A thousand, thousand sighs to save, lay me O where 
Sad true lover never find my grave , to weep there. 



240 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Viola did not fail to mark the words of the old 
song, which in such true simplicity described the pangs 
of unrequited love, and she bore testimony in her coun- 
tenance of feeling what the song expressed. Her sad 
looks were observed by Orsino, who said to her, "My 
life upon it, Cesario, though you are so young, your 
eye has looked upon some face that it loves; has it not, 
boy?" — "A little, with your leave," replied Viola; 
"And what kind of woman, and of what age is she?" 
said Orsino. "Of your age and of your complexion, 
my lord," said Viola; which made the duke smile to 
hear this fair young boy loved a woman so much older 
than himself, and of a man's dark complexion; but 
Viola secretly meant Orsino, and not a woman like 
him. 

When Viola made her second visit to Olivia, she 
found no difficulty in gaining access to her. Servants 
soon discover when their ladies delight to converse with 
handsome young messengers; and the instant Viola ar- 
rived, the gates were thrown wide open, and the duke's 
page was shown into Olivia's apartment with great re- 
spect; and when Viola told Olivia that she was come 
once more to plead in her lord's behalf, this lady said, 
"I desired you never to speak of him again; but if you 
would undertake another suit, I had rather hear you 
solicit, than music from the spheres." This was pretty 
plain speaking, but Olivia soon explained herself still 
more plainly, and openly confessed her love; and when 
she saw displeasure with perplexity expressed in Viola's 
face, she said, "0 what a deal of scorn looks beautiful 
in the contempt and anger of his lip! Cesario, by the 
roses of the spring, by maidhood, honour, and by truth, 
I love you so, that, in spite of your pride, I havQ 



TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 241 

neither wit nor reason to conceal my passion." But in 
vain the lady wooed; Viola hastened from her presence, 
threatening never more to come to plead Orsino's love; 
and all the reply she made to Olivia's fond solicitation 
was, a declaration of a resolution Never to love any 
woman. 

No sooner had Viola left the lady than a claim was 
made upon her valour. A gentleman, a rejected suitor 
of Olivia, who had learned how that lady had favoured 
the duke's messenger, challenged him to fight a duel. 
What should poor Viola do, who, though she carried 
a manlike outside, had a true woman's heart, and 
feared to look on her own sword? 

When she saw her formidable rival advancing to- 
wards her with his sword drawn, she began to think 
of confessing that she was a woman; but she was re- 
lieved at once from her terror, and the shame of such a 
discovery, by a^stranger that was passing by, who made 
up to them, and as if he had been long known to her, 
and were her dearest friend, said to her opponent, "If 
this young gentleman has done offence, I will take the 
fault on me; and if you offend him, I will for his sake 
defy you." Before Viola had time to thank him for 
his protection, or to inquire the reason of his kind inter- 
ference, her new friend met with an enemy where his 
bravery was of no use to him; for the officers of justice 
coming up in that instant, apprehended the stranger in 
the duke's name, to answer for an offence he had com- 
mitted some years before: and he said to Viola, "This 
comes with seeking you:" and then he asked her for 
a purse, saying, "Now my necessity makes me ask for 
my purse, and it grieves me much more for what I 
cannot do for you, than for what befalls myself. You 
Tales from Shakspeare. 16 



242 TALES FROM SHAKSPEAKE. 

stand amazed, but be of comfort." His words did in- 
deed amaze Viola, and she protested she knew him 
not, nor had ever received a purse from him; but for 
the kindness he had just shown her, she offered him a 
small sum of money, being nearly the whole she pos- 
sessed. And now the stranger spoke severe things, 
charging her with ingratitude and unkindness. He 
said, "This youth, whom you see here, I snatched 
from the jaws of death, and for his sake alone I came 
to Hlyria, and have fallen into this danger." But the 
officers cared little for hearkening to the complaints 
of their prisoner, and they hurried him off, saying, 
"What is that to us?" And as he was carried away, 
he called Viola by the name of Sebastian, reproaching 
the supposed Sebastian for disowning his friend, as 
long as he was within hearing. When Viola heard her- 
self called Sebastian, though the stranger was taken 
away too hastily for her to ask an explanation, she 
conjectured that this seeming mystery might arise from 
her being mistaken for her brother; and she began to 
cherish hopes that it was her brother whose life this 
man said he had preserved. And so indeed it was. 
The stranger, whose name was Anthonio, was a sea- 
captain. He had taken Sebastian up into his ship, 
when, almost exhausted with fatigue, he was floating 
on the mast to which he had fastened himself in the 
storm. Anthonio conceived such a friendship for Se- 
bastian, that he resolved to accompany him whither- 
soever he went; and when the youth expressed a cu- 
riosity to visit Orsino's court, Anthonio, rather than 
part from him, came to Hlyria, though he knew, if his 
person should be known there, his life would be in 
danger, because in a sea-fight he had once dangerously 



TWELFTH NIGHT J OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 243 

wounded the duke Orsino's nephew. This was the 
offence for which he was now made a prisoner. 

Anthonio and Sebastian had landed together but 
a few hours before Anthonio met Viola. He had given 
his purse to Sebastian, desiring him to use it freely if 
he saw anything he wished to purchase, telling him he 
would wait at the inn, while Sebastian went to view 
the town; but Sebastian not returning at the time ap- 
pointed, Anthonio had ventured out to look for him, and 
Viola being dressed the same, and in face so exactly 
resembling her brother, Anthonio drew his sword (as 
he thought) in defence of the youth he had saved, and 
when Sebastian (as he supposed) disowned him, and 
denied him his own purse, no wonder he accused him 
of ingratitude. 

Viola, when Anthonio was gone, fearing a second 
invitation to fight, slunk home as fast as she could. 
She had not been long gone, when her adversary 
thought he saw her return-, but it was her brother Se- 
bastian, who happened to arrive at this place, and he 
said, "Now, sir, have I met with you again? There's 
for you;" and struck him a blow. Sebastian was no 
coward; he returned the blow with interest, and drew 
his sword. 

A lady now put a stop to this duel, for Olivia came 
out of the house, and she too mistaking Sebastian for 
Cesario, invited him to come into her house, express- 
ing much sorrow at the rude attack he had met with. 
Though Sebastian was as much surprised at the courtesy 
of this lady as at the rudeness of his unknown foe, yet 
he went very willingly into the house, and Olivia was 
delighted to find Cesario (as she thought him) become 
more sensible of her attentions; for though their features 

16* 



244 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

were exactly the same, there was none of the contempt 
and anger to be seen in his face, which she had com- 
plained of when she told her love to Cesario. 

Sebastian did not at all object to the fondness the 
lady lavished on him. He seemed to take it in very 
good part, yet he wondered how it had come to pass, 
and he was rather inclined to think Olivia was not in 
her right senses; but perceiving that she was mistress 
of a fine house, and that she ordered her affairs and 
seemed to govern her family discreetly, and that in all 
but her sudden love for him she appeared in the full 
possession of her reason, he well approved of the court- 
ship; and Olivia finding Cesario in this good humour, 
and fearing he might change his mind, proposed that, 
as she had a priest in the house, they should be in- 
stantly married. Sebastian assented to this proposal; 
and when the marriage ceremony was over, he left his 
lady for a short time, intending to go and tell his 
friend Anthonio the good fortune that he had met with. 
In the mean time Orsino came to visit Olivia: and at 
the moment he arrived before Olivia's house, the officers 
of justice brought their prisoner, Anthonio, before the 
duke. Viola was with Orsino, her master; and when 
Anthonio saw Viola, whom he still imagined to be Se- 
bastian, he told the duke in what manner he had res- 
cued this youth from the perils of the sea; and after 
fully relating all the kindness he had really shown to 
Sebastian, he ended his complaint with saying, that for 
three months, both day and night, this ungrateful youth 
had been with him. But now the lady Olivia coming 
forth from her house, the duke could no longer attend 
to Anthonio's story; and he said, "Here comes the 
countess: now Heaven walks on earth! but for thee, 



TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 245 

fellow, thy words are madness. Three months has this 
youth attended on me:" and then he ordered Anthonio 
to be taken aside. But Orsino's heavenly countess soon 
gave the duke cause to accuse Cesario as much of in- 
gratitude as Anthonio had done, for all the words he 
could hear Olivia speak were words of kindness to Ce- 
sario: and when he found his page had obtained this 
high place in Olivia's favour, he threatened him with 
all the terrors of his just revenge ; and as he was going 
to depart, he called Viola to follow him, saying, 
"Come, boy, with me. My thoughts are ripe for mis- 
chief." Though it seemed in his jealous rage he was 
going to doom Viola to instant death, yet her love 
made her no longer a coward, and she said she would 
most joyfully suffer death to give her master ease. But 
Olivia would not so lose her husband, and she cried, 
"Where goes my Cesario?" Viola replied, "After him 
I love more than my life." Olivia, however, prevented 
their departure by loudly proclaiming that Cesario was 
her husband, and sent for the priest, who declared that 
not two hours had passed since he had married the lady 
Olivia to this young man. In vain Viola protested she 
was not married to Olivia-, the evidence of that lady 
and the priest made Orsino believe that his page had 
robbed him of the treasure he prized above his life. 
But thinking that it was past recall, he was bidding 
farewell to his faithless mistiess, and the young dissembler, 
her husband, as he called Viola, warning her never to 
come in his sight again, when (as it seemed to them) 
a miracle appeared! for another Cesario entered, and 
addressed Olivia as his wife. This new Cesario was 
Sebastian, the real husband of Olivia; and when their 
wonder had a little ceased at seeing two persons with 



246 TALES PROM SHAK.SPEARE. 

the same face, the same voice, and the same habit, the 
brother and sister began to question each other; for 
Viola could scarce be persuaded that her brother was 
living, and Sebastian knew not how to account for the 
sister he supposed drowned, being found in the habit 
of a young man. But Viola presently acknowledged 
that she was indeed Viola, and his sister, under that 
disguise. 

When all the errors were cleared up which the ex- 
treme likeness between this twin brother and sister had 
occasioned, they laughed at the lady Olivia for the 
pleasant mistake she had made in falling in love with 
a woman; and Olivia showed no dislike to her ex- 
change, when she found she had wedded the brother 
instead of the sister. 

The hopes of Orsino were for ever at an end by 
this marriage of Olivia, and with his hopes, all his 
fruitless love seemed to vanish away, and all his 
thoughts were fixed on the event of his favourite, 
young Cesario, being changed into a fair lady. He 
viewed Viola with great attention, and he remembered 
how very handsome he had always thought Cesario 
was, and he concluded she would look very beautiful 
in a woman's attire; and then he remembered how 
often she had said she loved him y which at the time 
seemed only the dutiful expressions of a faithful page; 
but now he guessed that something more was meant, 
for many of her pretty sayings, which were like riddles 
to him, came now into his mind, and he no sooner re- 
membered all these things than he resolved to make 
Viola his wife; and he said to her (he still could not 
help calling her Cesario and boy) y "Boy, you have said 
to me a thousand times that you should never love a 



TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 247 

woman like to me, and for the faithful service you 
have done for me so much beneath your soft and 
tender breeding, and since you have called me master 
so long, you shall now be your master's mistress, and 
Orsino's true duchess." 

Olivia, perceiving Orsino was making over that 
heart, which she had so ungraciously rejected, to Viola, 
invited them to enter her house, and offered the as- 
sistance of the good priest, who had married her to 
Sebastian in the morning, to perform the same cere- 
mony in the remaining part of the day for Orsino and 
Viola. Thus the twin brother and sister were both 
wedded on the same day: the storm and shipwreck, 
which had separated them, being the means of bringing 
to pass their high and mighty fortunes. Viola was the 
wife of Orsino, the duke of Hlyria, and Sebastian 
the husband of the rich and noble countess , the lady 
Olivia. 



248 TALES PROM SHAKSPEARE, 



TIMON OF ATHENS. 



Timon, a lord of Athens, in the enjoyment of a 
princely fortune, affected a humour of liberality which 
knew no limits. His almost infinite wealth could not 
flow in so fast, but he poured it out faster upon all 
sorts and degrees of people. Not the poor only tasted 
of his bounty, but great lords did not disdain to rank 
themselves among his dependants and followers. His 
table was resorted to by all the luxurious feasters, and 
his house was open to all comers and goers at Athens. 
His large wealth combined with his free and prodigal 
nature to subdue all hearts to his love; men of all 
minds and dispositions tendered their services to lord 
Timon, from the glass-faced flatterer, whose face re- 
flects as in a mirror the present humour of his patron, 
to the rough and unbending cynic, who affecting a 
contempt of men's persons, and an indifference to 
worldly things, yet could not stand out against the 
gracious manners and munificent soul of lord Timon, 
but would come (against his nature) to partake of his 
royal entertainments, and return most rich in his own 
estimation if he had received a nod or a salutation 
from Timon. 

If a poet had composed a work which wanted a 
recommendatory introduction to the world, he had no 
more to do but to dedicate it to lord Timon, and the 



TIMON OF ATHENS. 249 

poem was sure of sale, besides a present purse from 
the patron, and daily access to his house and table. If 
a painter had a picture to dispose of, he had onlv to 
take it to lord Timon, and pretend to consult his taste 
as to the merits of it; nothing more was wanting to 
persuade the liberal-hearted lord to buy it. If a jeweller 
had a stone of price, or a mercer rich costly stuffs, 
which for their costliness lay upon his hands, lord 
Timon's house was a ready mart always open, where 
they might get off their wares or their jewellery at any 
price, and the good-natured lord would thank them into 
the bargain, as if they had done him a piece of 
courtesy in letting him have the refusal of such pre- 
cious commodities. So that by this means his house 
was thronged with superfluous purchases, of no use but 
to swell uneasy and ostentatious pomp; and his person 
was still more inconveniently beset with a crowd of 
these idle visitors, lying poets, painters, sharking 
tradesmen, lords, ladies, needy courtiers, and ex- 
pectants, who continually filled his lobbies, raining 
their fulsome flatteries in whispers in his ears, sacri- 
ficing to him with adulation as to a God, making 
sacred the very stirrup by which he mounted his horse, 
and seeming as though they drank the free air but 
through his permission and bounty. 

Some of these daily dependants were young men 
of birth, who (their means not answering to their ex- 
travagance) had been put in prison by creditors, and 
redeemed thence by lord Timon; these young prodigals 
thenceforward fastened upon his lordship, as if by 
common sympathy he were necessarily endeared to all 
such spendthrifts and loose livers, who, not being able 
to follow him in his wealth, found it easier to copy 



250 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

him in prodigality and copious spending of what was 
not their Gwn. One of these flesh-flies was Ventidius, 
for whose debts unjustly contracted Timon but lately 
had paid down the sum of five talents. 

But among this confluence, this great flood of 
visitors, none were more conspicuous than the makers 
of presents and givers of gifts. It was fortunate for 
these men, if Timon took a fancy to a dog or a horse, 
or any piece of cheap furniture which was theirs. The 
thing so praised, whatever it was, was sure to be sent 
the next morning with the compliments of the giver 
for lord Timon's acceptance, and apologies for the un- 
worthiness of the gift; and this dog or horse, or what- 
ever it might be, did not fail to produce from Timon's 
bounty, who would not be outdone in gifts, perhaps 
twenty dogs or horses, certainly presents of far richer 
worth, as these pretended donors knew well enough, 
and that their false presents were but the putting out 
of so much money at large and speedy interest. In 
this way lord Lucius had lately sent to Timon a pre- 
sent of four milk-white horses trapped in silver, which 
this cunning lord had observed Timon upon some oc- 
casion to commend; and another lord, Lucullus, had 
bestowed upon him in the same pretended way of free 
gift a brace of greyhounds, whose make and fleetness 
Timon had been heard to admire; these presents the 
easy-hearted lord accepted without suspicion of the dis- 
honest views of the presenters; and the givers of course 
were rewarded with some rich return, a diamond or 
some jewel of twenty times the value of their false 
and mercenary donation. 

Sometimes these creatures would go to work in a 
more direct way, and with gross and palpable artifice, 



TIMON OP ATHENS. 251 

which yet the credulous Timon was too blind to see, 
would affect to admire and praise something that 
Timon possessed, a bargain that he had bought, or 
some late purchase, which was sure to draw from this 
yielding and soft-hearted lord a gift of the thing com- 
mended, for no service in the world done for it but 
the easy expense of a little cheap and obvious flattery. 
In this way Timon but the other day had given to 
one of these mean lords the bay courser which he him- 
self rode upon, because his lordship had been pleased 
to say that it was a handsome beast and went well; 
and Timon knew that no man ever justly praised what 
he did not wish to possess. For lord Timon weighed 
his friends' affection with his own, and so fond was 
he of bestowing, that he could have dealt king- 
doms to these supposed friends, and never have been 
weary. 

Not that Timon's wealth all went to enrich these 
wicked flatterers; he could do noble and praiseworthy 
actions; and when a servant of his once loved the 
daughter of a rich Athenian, but could not hope to 
obtain her by reason that in wealth and rank the maid 
was so far above him, lord Timon freely bestowed 
upon his servant three Athenian talents, to make his 
fortune equal with the dowry which the father of the 
young maid demanded of him who should be her hus- 
band. But for the most part, knaves and parasites 
had the command of his fortune, false friends whom 
he did not know to be such, but, because they flocked 
around his person, he thought they must needs love 
him; and because they smiled and flattered him, he 
thought surely that his conduct was approved by all 
the wise and good. And when he was feasting in the 



252 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

midst of all these flatterers and mock friends, when 
they were eating him up, and draining his fortunes 
dry with large draughts of richest wines drunk to his 
health and prosperity, he could not perceive the dif- 
ference of a friend from a flatterer, but to his deluded 
eyes (made proud with the sight) it seemed a precious 
comfort to have so many like brothers commanding 
one another's fortunes (though it was his own fortune 
which paid all the costs), and with joy they would run 
over at the spectacle of such, as it appeared to him, 
truly festive and fraternal meeting. 

But while he thus outwent the very heart of kind- 
ness, and poured out his bounty, as if Plutus, the god 
of gold, had been but his steward; while thus he pro- 
ceeded without care or stop, so senseless of expense 
that he would neither inquire how he could maintain 
it, nor cease his wild flow of riot; his riches, which 
were not infinite, must needs melt away before a pro- 
digality which knew no limits. But who should tell 
him so? his flatterers? they had an interest in shutting 
his eyes. In vain did his honest steward Flavius try 
to represent to him his condition, laying his accounts 
before him, begging of him, praying of him, with an 
importunity that on any other occasion would have 
been unmannerly in a servant, beseeching him with 
tears to look into the state of his affairs. Timon would 
still put him off, and turn the discourse to something 
else; for nothing is so deaf to remonstrance as riches 
turned to poverty, nothing is so unwilling to believe 
its situation, nothing so incredulous to its own true 
state, and hard to give credit to a reverse. Often had 
this good steward, this honest creature, when all the 
rooms of Timon's great house had been choked up 



TIMON OF ATHENS. 253 

with riotous feeders at his master's cost, when the 
floors have wept with drunken spilling of wine, and 
every apartment has blazed with lights and resounded 
with music and feasting, often had he retired by him- 
self to some solitary spot, and wept faster than the 
wine ran from the wasteful casks within, to see the 
mad bounty of his lord, and to think when the means 
were gone which brought him praises from all sorts of 
people, how quickly the breath would be gone of which 
the praise was made; praises won in feasting would be 
lost in fasting, and at one cloud of winter-showers 
these flies would disappear. 

But now the time was come that Timon could shut 
his ears no longer to the representations of this faith- 
ful steward. Money must be had; and when he 
ordered Flavius to sell some of his land for that pur- 
pose, Flavius,, informed him, what he had in vain 
endeavoured at several times before to make him listen 
to, that most of his land was already sold or forfeited, 
and that all he possessed at present was not enough to 
pay the one half of what he owed. Struck with won- 
der at this representation, Timon hastily replied, "My 
lands extend from Athens to Lacedemon." "0 my 
good lord," said Flavius, "the world is but a world, 
and has bounds; were it all yours to give it in a 
breath, how quickly were it gone!" 

Timon consoled himself that no villanous bounty 
had yet come from him, that if he had given his 
wealth away unwisely, it had not been bestowed to 
feed his vices, but to cherish his friends; and he bade 
the kind-hearted steward (who was weeping) to take 
comfort in the assurance that his master could never 
lack means, while he had so many noble friends; and 



254 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

this infatuated lord persuaded himself that he had 
nothing to do but to send and borrow, to use every 
man's fortune (that had ever tasted his bounty) in this 
extremity, as freely as his own. Then with a cheer- 
ful look, as if confident of the trial, he severally dis- 
patched messengers to lord Lucius, to lords Lucullus 
and Sempronius, men upon whom he had lavished his 
gifts in past times without measure or moderation; and 
to Ventidius, whom he had lately released out of prison 
by paying his debts, and who by the death of his 
father was now come into the possession of an ample 
fortune, and well enabled to requite Timon's courtesy: 
to request of Ventidius the return of those five talents 
which he had paid for him, and of each of those noble 
lords the loan of fifty talents-, nothing doubting that 
their gratitude would supply his wants (if he needed 
it) to the amount of five hundred times fifty talents. 

Lucullus was the first applied to. This mean lord 
had been dreaming overnight of a silver bason and 
cup, and when Timon's servant was announced, his 
sordid mind suggested to him that this was surely a 
making out of his dream, and that Timon had sent 
him such a present: but when he understood the truth 
of the matter, and that Timon wanted money, the 
quality of his faint and watery friendship showed itself, 
for with many protestations he vowed to the servant 
that he had long foreseen the ruin of his master's 
affairs, and many a time had he come to dinner to tell 
him of it, and had come again to supper to try to per- 
suade him to spend less, but he would take no counsel 
nor warning by his coming: and true it was that he 
had been a constant attender (as he said) at Timon's 
feasts, as he had in greater things tasted his bounty, 



TIMON OF ATHENS. 255 

but that he ever came with that intent, or gave good 
counsel or reproof to Timon, was a base unworthy lie, 
which he suitably followed up with meanly offering 
the servant a bribe, to go home to his master and tell 
him that he had not found Lucullus at home. 

As little success had the messenger who was sent 
to lord Lucius. This lying lord, who was full of 
Timon's meat, and enriched almost to bursting with 
Timon's costly presents, when he found the wind 
changed, and the fountain of so much bounty suddenly 
stopped, at first could hardly believe it; but on its 
being confirmed, he affected great regret that he should 
not have it in his power to serve lord Timon, for un- 
fortunately (which was a base falsehood) he had made 
a great purchase the day before, which had quite dis- 
furnished him of the means at present, the more beast 
he, he called himself, to put it out of his power to 
serve so good a friend; and he counted it one of his 
greatest afflictions that his ability should fail him to 
pleasure such an honourable gentleman. 

Who can call any man friend that dips in the same 
dish with him? just of this metal is every flatterer. In 
the recollection of everybody Timon had been a father 
to this Lucius, had kept up his credit with his purse; 
Timon's money had gone to pay the wages of his ser- 
vants, to pay the hire of the labourers who had sweat 
to build the fine houses which Lucius's pride had made 
necessary to him: yet, oh! the monster which man 
makes himself when he proves ungrateful! this Lucius 
now denied to Timon a sum, which, in respect of what 
Timon had bestowed on him, was less than charitable 
men afford to beggars. 

Sempronius, and every one of these mercenary 



256 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

lords to whom Timon applied in their turn, returned 
the same evasive answer or direct denial; even Venti- 
dius, the redeemed and now rich Ventidius, refused to 
assist him with the loan of those five talents which 
Timon had not lent but generously given him in hia 
distress. 

Now was Timon as much avoided in his poverty 
as he had been courted and resorted to in his riches, 
Now the same tongues which had been loudest in his 
praises, extolling him as bountiful, liberal, and open- 
handed, were not ashamed to censure that very bounty 
as folly, that liberality as profuseness, though it had 
shown itself folly in nothing so truly as in the selec- 
tion of such unworthy creatures as themselves for its 
objects. Now was Timon's princely mansion forsaken, 
and become a shunned and hated place, a place for 
men to pass by, not a place as formerly where every 
passenger must stop and taste of his wine and good 
cheer; now, instead of being thronged with feasting 
and tumultuous guests, it was beset with impatient and 
clamorous creditors, usurers, extortioners, fierce and in- 
tolerable in their demands, pleading bonds, interest, 
mortgages, iron-hearted men that would take no denial 
nor putting off, that Timon's house was now his jail, 
which he could not pass, nor go in nor out for them; 
one demanding his due of fifty talents, another bring- 
ing in a bill of five thousand crowns, which if he 
would tell out his blood by drops, and pay them so, 
he had not enough in his body to discharge, drop by 
drop. 

In this desperate and irremediable state (as it seemed) 
of his affairs, the eyes of all men were suddenly sur- 
prised at a new and incredible lustre which this setting 



TIMON OF ATHENS. 257 

sun put forth. Once more lord Timon proclaimed a 
feast, to which he invited his accustomed guests, lords, 
ladies, all that was great or fashionable in Athens. 
Lords Lucius and Lucullus came, Ventidius, Sempro- 
nius, and the rest. Who more sorry now than these 
fawning wretches, when they found (as they thought) 
that lord Timon's poverty was all pretence, and had 
been only put on to make trial of their loves, to think 
that they should not have seen through the artifice at 
the time, and have had the cheap credit of obliging 
his lordship? yet who more glad to find the fountain 
of that noble bounty, which they had thought dried 
up, still fresh and running? They came dissembling, 
protesting, expressing deepest sorrow and shame, that 
when his lordship sent to them, they should have been 
so unfortunate as to want the present means to oblige 
so honourable a friend. But Timon begged them 
not to give sueh^trifles a thought, for he had altogether 
forgotten it. And these base fawning lords, though 
they had denied him money in his adversity, yet could 
not refuse their presence at this new blaze of his re- 
turning prosperity. For the swallow follows not sum- 
mer more willingly than men of these dispositions fol- 
low the good fortunes of the great, nor more willingly 
leaves winter than these shrink from the first ap- 
pearance of a reverse; such summer birds are men. 
But now with music and state the banquet of smoking 
dishes was served up; and when the guests had a little 
done admiring whence the bankrupt Timon could find 
means to furnish so costly a feast, some doubting 
whether the scene which they saw was real, as scarce 
trusting their own eyes; at a signal given, the dishes 
were uncovered, and Timon's drift appeared: instead 

Tales from Shakspeare. !• 



258 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

of those varieties and far-fetched dainties which they 
expected, that Timon's epicurean table in past times 
had so liberally presented, now appeared under the 
covers of these dishes a preparation more suitable to 
Timon's poverty, nothing but a little smoke and luke- 
warm water, fit feast for this knot of mouth-friends, 
whose professions were indeed smoke, and their hearts 
lukewarm and slippery as the water with which Timon 
welcomed his astonished guests, bidding them, "Un- 
cover, dogs, and lap;" and before they could recover 
their surprise, sprinkling it in their faces, that they 
might have enough, and throwing dishes and all after 
them, who now ran huddling out, lords, ladies, with 
their caps snatched up in haste, a splendid confusion, 
Timon pursuing them, still calling them what they were, 
"smooth smiling parasites, destroyers under the mask of 
courtesy, affable wolves, meek bears, fools of fortune, 
feast friends, time-flies." They, crowding out to avoid 
him, left the house more willingly than they had 
entered it; some losing their gowns and caps, and some 
their jewels in the hurry, all glad to escape out of the 
presence of such a mad lord, and from the ridicule of 
his mock banquet. 

This was the last feast which ever Timon made, 
and in it he took farewell of Athens and the society 
of men; for, after that, he betook himself to the 
woods, turning his back upon the hated city and upon 
all mankind, wishing the walls of that detestable city 
might sink, and the houses fall upon their owners, 
wishing all plagues which infest humanity, war, outrage, 
poverty, diseases, might fasten upon its inhabitants, 
praying the just Gods to confound all Athenians, both 
young and old, high and low; so wishing, he went to 



TIMON OF ATHENS. 259 

the woods, where he said he should find the unkindest 
beast much kinder than mankind. He stripped him- 
self naked, that he might retain no fashion of a man, 
and dug a cave to live in, and lived solitary in the 
manner of a beast, eating the wild roots, and drinking 
water, flying from the face of his kind, and choosing 
rather to herd with wild beasts, as more harmless and 
friendly than man. 

What a change from lord Timon the rich, lord 
Timon the delight of mankind, to Timon the naked, 
Timon the man-hater! Where were his flatterers now? 
Where were his attendants and retinue? Would the 
bleak air, that boisterous servitor, be his chamberlain, 
to put his shirt on warm? Would those stiff trees 
that had outlived the eagle, turn young and airy pages 
to him, to skip on his errands when he bade them? 
Would the cold brook, when it was iced with winter, 
administer to him his warm broths and caudles when 
sick of an overnight's surfeit? Or would the creatures 
that lived in those wild woods come and lick his hand 
and flatter him? 

Here on a day, when he was digging for roots, 
his poor sustenance, his spade struck against some- 
thing heavy, which proved to be gold, a great heap 
which some miser had probably buried in a time of 
alarm, thinking to have come again, and taken it 
from its prison, but died before the opportunity had 
arrived, without making any man privy to the con- 
cealment; so it lay, doing neither good nor harm, in 
the bowels of the earth, its mother, as if it had 
never come from thence, till the accidental striking 
of Timon's spade against it once more brought it to 
light. 

17* 



260 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Here was a mass of treasure which, if Timon had 
retained his old mind, was enough to have purchased 
him friends and flatterers again; but Timon was sick 
of the false world, and the sight of gold was poisonous 
to his eyes; and he would have restored it to the 
earth, but that, thinking of the infinite calamities 
which by mean's of gold happen to mankind, how 
the lucre of it causes robberies, oppression, injustice, 
briberies, violence, and murder, among men, he had a 
pleasure in imagining (such a rooted hatred did he 
bear to his species) that out of this heap, which in 
digging he had discovered, might arise some mischief 
to plague mankind. And some soldiers passing through 
the woods near to his cave at that instant, which 
proved to be a part of the troops of the Athenian cap- 
tain Alcibiades, who upon some disgust taken against 
the senators of Athens (the Athenians were ever noted 
to be a thankless and ungrateful people, giving disgust 
to their generals and best friends), was marching at 
the head of the same triumphant army which he had 
formerly headed in their defence, to war against them: 
Timon, who liked their business well, bestowed upon 
their captain the gold to pay his soldiers, requiring no 
other service from him, than that he should with his 
conquering army lay Athens level with the ground, 
and burn, slay, kill all her inhabitants; not sparing the 
old men for their white beards, for (he said) they were 
usurers, nor the young children for their seeming in- 
nocent smiles, for those (he said) would live, if they 
grew up, to be traitors; but to steel his eyes and ears 
against any sights or sounds that might awaken com- 
passion; and not to let the cries of virgins, babes, or 
mothers, hinder him from making one universal mas- 



TIMON OP ATHENS. 261 

sacre of the city, but to confound them all in his con- 
quest; and when he had conquered, he prayed that 
the gods would confound him also, the conqueror: so 
thoroughly did Timon hate Athens, Athenians, and all 
mankind. 

While he lived in this forlorn state, leading a life 
more brutal than human, he was suddenly surprised 
one day with the appearance of a man standing in an 
admiring posture at the door of his cave. It was 
Flavius, the honest steward, whom love and zealous 
affection to his master had led to seek him out at his 
wretched dwelling, and to offer his services; and the 
first sight of his master, the once noble Timon, in that 
abject condition, naked as he was born, living in the 
manner of a beast among beasts, looking like his own 
sad ruins and a monument of decay, so affected this 
good servant, that he stood speechless, wrapped up in 
horror, and confounded. And when he found utterance 
at last to his words, they were so choked with tears, 
that Timon had much ado to know him again, or to 
make out who it was that had come (so contrary to 
the experience he had had of mankind) to offer him 
service in extremity. And being in the form and 
shape of a man, he suspected him for a traitor, and 
his tears for false; but the good servant by so many 
tokens confirmed the truth of his fidelity, and made 
it clear that nothing but love and zealous duty to his 
once dear master had brought him there, that Timon 
was forced to confess that the world contained one 
honest man; yet, being in the shape and form of a 
man, he could not look upon his man's face without 
abhorrence, or hear words uttered from his man's lips 
without loathing; and this singly honest man was 



282 TALES PROM SHAKSPEARE. 

forced to depart, because he was a man, and because, 
with a heart more gentle and compassionate than is 
usual to man, he bore man's detested form and out- 
ward feature. 

But greater visitants than a poor steward were 
about to interrupt the savage quiet of Timon's solitude. 
For now the day was come when the ungrateful lords 
of Athens sorely repented the injustice which they had 
done to the noble Timon. Eor Alcibiades, like an 
incensed wild boar, was raging at the walls of their 
city, and with his hot siege threatened to lay fair 
Athens in the dust. And now the memory of lord 
Timon's former prowess and military conduct came 
fresh into their forgetful minds, for Timon had been 
their general in past times, and a valiant and expert 
soldier, who alone of all the Athenians was deemed 
able to cope with a besieging army such as then 
threatened them, or to drive back the furious approaches 
of Alcibiades. 

A deputation of the senators was chosen in this 
emergency to wait upon Timon. To him they come 
in their extremity, to whom, when he was in ex- 
tremity, they had shown but small regard; as if they 
presumed upon his gratitude whom they had disobliged, 
and had derived a claim to his courtesy from their 
own most discourteous and unpiteous treatment. 

Now they earnestly beseech him, implore him with 
tears, to return and save that city, from which their 
ingratitude had so lately driven him; now they offer 
him riches, power, dignities, satisfaction for past in- 
juries, and public honours, and the public love; their 
persons, lives, and fortunes, to be at his disposal, if 
he will but come back and save them. But Timon 



TIMON OP ATHENS. 263 

the naked, Timon the man-hater, was no longer lord 
Timon, the lord of bounty, the flower of valour, their 
defence in war, their ornament in peace. If Alcibiades 
killed his countrymen, Timon cared not. If he sacked 
fair Athens, and slew her old men and her infants, 
Timon would rejoice. So he told them; and that there 
was not a knife in the unruly camp which he did not 
prize above the reverendest throat in Athens. 

This was all the answer he vouchsafed to the weep- 
ing disappointed senators; only at parting he bade 
them commend him to his countrymen, and tell them, 
that to ease them of their griefs and anxieties, and to 
prevent the consequences of fierce Alcibiades' wrath, 
there was yet a way left, which he would teach them, 
for he had yet so much affection left for his dear 
countrymen as to be willing to do them a kindness 
before his death. These words a little revived the 
senators, who hoped that his kindness for their city 
was returning/ Then Timon told them that he had 
a tree, which grew near his cave, which he should 
shortly have occasion to cut down, and he invited all 
his friends in Athens, high or low, of what degree 
soever, who wished to shun affliction, to come and take 
a taste of his tree before he cut it down; meaning, 
that they might come and hang themselves on it, and 
escape affliction that way. 

And this was the last courtesy, of all his noble 
bounties, which Timon showed to mankind, and this 
the last sight of him which his countrymen had: for 
not many days after, a poor soldier, passing by the 
sea-beach, which was at a little distance from the 
woods which Timon frequented, found a tomb on the 
verge of the sea, with an inscription upon it, purporting 



264 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

that it was the grave of Timon the man-hater, who 
"While he lived, did hate all living men, and dying 
wished a plague might consume all caitiffs left!" 

Whether be finished his life by violence, or whether 
mere distate of life and the loathing he had for man- 
kind brought Timon to his conclusion, was not clear, 
yet all men admired the fitness of his epitaph, and the 
consistency of his end; dying, as he had lived, a hater 
of mankind: and some there were who fancied a com- 
ceit in the very choice which he made of the sea-beach 
for his place of burial, where the vast sea might weep 
for ever upon his grave, as in contempt of the tran- 
sient and shallow tears of hypocritical and deceitful 
mankind. 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 265 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 



The two chief families in Verona were the rich 
Capulets and the Mountagues. There had been an 
old quarrel between these families, which was grown 
to such a height, and so deadly was the enmity be- 
tween them, that it extended to the remotest kindred, 
to the followers and retainers of both sides, insomuch 
that a servant of the house of Mountague could not 
meet a servant of the house of Capulet, nor a Oapulet 
encounter with a Mountague by chance, but fierce words 
and sometimes bloodshed ensued; and frequent were 
the brawls from such accidental meetings, which dis- 
turbed the happy quiet of Verona's streets. 

Old lord Capulet made a great supper, to which 
many fair ladies and many noble guests were invited. 
All the admired beauties of Verona were present, and 
all comers were made welcome if they were not of the 
house of Mountague. At this feast of Capulets, Rosa- 
line, beloved of Romeo, son to the old lord Mountague, 
was present; and though it was dangerous for a Moun- 
tague to be seen in this assembly, yet Benvolio, a 
friend of Romeo, persuaded the young lord to go to 
this assembly in the disguise of a mask, that he might 
see his Rosaline, and seeing her, compare her with 
some choice beauties of Verona, who (he said) would 
make him think his swan a crow. Romeo had small 



266 TALES PROM SHAKSPEARE. 

faith in Benvolio's words; nevertheless, for the love of 
Rosaline, he was persuaded to go. For Romeo was a 
sincere and passionate lover, and one that lost his sleep 
for love, and fled society to be alone, thinking on Ro- 
saline, who disdained him, and never requited his love 
with the least show of courtesy or affection; and Ben- 
volio wished to cure his friend of this love by showing 
him diversity of ladies and company. To this feast of 
Capulets then young Romeo with Benvolio and their 
friend Mercutio went masked. Old Capulet bid them 
welcome, and told them that ladies who had their toes 
unplagued with corns would dance with them. And 
the old man was light-hearted and merry, and said that 
he had worn a mask when he was young, and could 
have told a whispering tale in a fair lady's ear. And 
they fell to dancing, and Romeo was suddenly struck 
with the exceeding beauty of a lady who danced there, 
who seemed to him to teach the torches to burn bright, 
and her beauty to show by night like a rich jewel worn 
by a blackamoor; beauty too rich for use, too dear for 
earth! like a snowy dove trooping with crows (he said), 
so richly did her beauty and perfections shine above 
the ladies her companions. While he uttered these 
praises, he was overheard by Tybalt, a nephew of lord 
Capulet, who knew him by his voice to be Romeo. 
And this Tybalt, being of a fiery and passionate tem- 
per, could not endure that a Mountague should come 
under cover of a mask, to fleer and scorn (as he said) 
at their solemnities. And he stormed and raged ex- 
ceedingly, and would have struck young Romeo dead. 
But his uncle, the old lord Capulet, would not suffer 
him to do any injury at that time, both out of respect 
to his guests, and because Romeo had borne himself 



EOMEO AND JULIET. 267 

like a gentleman, and all tongues in Verona bragged 
of him to be a virtuous and well-governed youth. Ty- 
balt, forced to be patient against his will, restrained 
himself, but swore that this vile Mountague should at 
another time dearly pay for his intrusion. 

The dancing being done, Romeo watched the place 
where the lady stood; and under favour of his masking 
habit, which might seem to excuse in part the liberty, 
he presumed in the gentlest manner to take her by the 
hand, calling it a shrine, which if he profaned by 
touching it, he was a blushing pilgrim, and would kiss 
it for atonement. "Good pilgrim," answered the lady, 
"your devotion shows by far too mannerly and too 
courtly: saints have hands, which pilgrims may touch, 
but kiss not." — "Have not saints lips, and pilgrims 
too?" said Romeo. "Ay," said the lady, "lips which 
they must use in prayer." — "0 then, my dear saint," 
said Romeo; .."hear my prayer, and grant it, lest I 
despair." In such like allusions and loving conceits 
they were engaged, when the lady was called away to 
her mother. And Romeo inquiring who her mother 
was, discovered that the lady whose peerless beauty he 
was so much struck with, was young Juliet, daughter 
and heir to the lord Capulet, the great enemy of the 
Mountagues; and that he had unknowingly engaged 
his heart to his foe. This troubled him, but it could 
not dissuade him from loving. As little rest had Juliet, 
when she found that the gentleman that she had been 
talking with was Romeo and a Mountague, for she had 
been suddenly smit with the same hasty and incon- 
siderate passion for Romeo, which he had conceived 
for her; and a prodigious birth of love it seemed to 
her, that she must love her enemy, and that her affec- 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

tions should settle there, where family considerations 
should induce her chiefly to hate. 

It being midnight, Romeo with his companions de- 
parted; hut they soon missed him, for unable to stay 
away from the house where he had left his heart, he 
leaped the wall of an orchard which was at the back 
of Juliet's house. Here he had not been long, rumin- 
ating on his new love, when Juliet appeared above 
at a window, through which her exceeding beauty 
seemed to break like the light of the sun in the east-, 
and the moon, which shone in the orchard with a faint 
light, appeared to Romeo as if sick and pale with 
grief at the superior lustre of this new sun. And she 
leaning her cheek upon her hand, he passionately 
wished himself a glove upon that hand, that he might 
touch her cheek. She all this while thinking herself 
alone, fetched a deep sigh, and exclaimed, "Ah me!" 
Romeo, enraptured to hear her speak, said softly, and 
unheard by her, "0 speak again, bright angel, for 
such you appear, being over my head, like a winged 
messenger from heaven whom mortals fall back to gaze 
upon." She, unconscious of being overheard, and full 
of the new passion which that night's adventure had 
given birth to, called upon her lover by name (whom 
she supposed absent): "0 Romeo, Romeo!" said she, 
"wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father, and 
refuse thy name, for my sake; or if thou wilt not, be 
but my sworn love , and I no longer will be a Capulet." 
Romeo, having this encouragement, would fain have 
spoken, but he was desirous of hearing more; and the 
lady continued her passionate discourse with herself 
(as she thought), still chiding Romeo for being Romeo 
and a Mountague, and wishing him some other name, 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 269 

or that lie would put away that hated name, and for 
that name, which was no part of himself, he should 
take all herself. At this loving word Romeo could no 
longer refrain, but taking up the dialogue as if her 
words had been addressed to him personally, and not 
merely in fancy, he bade her call him Love, or by 
whatever other name she pleased, for he was no longer 
Romeo, if that name was displeasing to her. Juliet, 
alarmed to hear a man's voice in the garden, did not 
at first know who it was, that by favour of the night 
and darkness had thus stumbled upon the discovery of 
her secret; but when he spoke again, though her ears 
had not yet drunk a hundred words of that tongue's 
uttering, yet so nice is a lover's hearing, that she im- 
mediately knew him to be young Romeo, and she ex- 
postulated with him on the danger to which he had 
exposed himself by climbing the orchard walls, for if 
any of her kinsmen should find him there, it would be 
death to him, being a Mountague. "Alack," said Ro- 
meo, there is more peril in your eye, than in twenty 
of their swords. Do you but look kind upon me, lady, 
and I am proof against their enmity. Better my life 
should be ended by their hate, than that hated life 
should be prolonged, to live without your love." — 
"How came you into this place," said Juliet, "and by 
whose direction?" — "Love directed me," answered 
Romeo: "I am no pilot, yet wert thou as far apart 
from me, as that vast shore which is washed with the 
furthest sea, I should adventure for such merchandise." 
A crimson blush came over Juliet's face, yet unseen 
by Romeo by reason of the night, when she reflected 
upon the discovery which she had made, yet not mean- 
ing to make it of her love to Romeo. She would fain 



270 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

have recalled her words, but that was impossible: fain 
would she have stood upon form, and have kept her 
lover at a distance, as the custom of discreet ladies is, 
to frown and be perverse, and give their suitors harsh 
denials at first; to stand off, and affect a coyness or 
indifference, where they most love, that their lovers 
may not think them too lightly or too easily won; for 
the difficulty of attainment increases the value of the 
object. But there was no room in her case for denials, 
or puttings off, or any of the customary arts of delay 
and protracted courtship. Romeo had heard from her 
own tongue, when she did not dream that he was near 
her, a confession of her love. So with an honest frank- 
ness, which the novelty of her situation excused, she 
confirmed the truth of what he had before heard, and 
addressing him by the name of fair Mountague (love 
can sweeten a sour name), she begged him not to im^ 
pute her easy yielding to levity or an unworthy mind, 
but that he must lay the fault of it (if it were a fault) 
upon the accident of the night which had so strangely 
discovered her thoughts. And she added, that though 
her behaviour to him might not be sufficiently prudent, 
measured by the custom of her sex, yet that she would 
prove more true than many whose prudence was dis- 
sembling, and their modesty artificial cunning. 

Romeo was beginning to call the heavens to wit- 
ness, that nothing was further from his thoughts than 
to impute a shadow of dishonour to such an honoured 
lady, when she stopped him, begging him not to swear; 
for although she joyed in him, yet she had no joy of 
that night's contract: it was too rash, too unadvised, 
too sudden. But he being urgent with her to exchange 
a vow of love with him that night, she said that she 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 271 

already had given him hers before he requested it; 
meaning, when he overheard her confession; but she 
would retract what she then bestowed, for the pleasure 
of giving it again, for her bounty was as infinite as 
the sea, and her love as deep. From this loving con- 
ference she was called away by her nurse, who slept 
with her, and thought it time for her to be in bed, for 
it was near to day-break; but hastily returning, she 
said three or four words more to Romeo, the purport 
of which was , that if his love was indeed honourable, 
and his purpose marriage, she would send a messenger 
to him to-morrow, to appoint a time for their marriage, 
when she would lay all her fortunes at his feet, and 
follow him as her lord through the world. While they 
were settling this point, Juliet was repeatedly called 
for by her nurse, and went in and returned, and went 
and returned again, for she seemed as jealous of Romeo 
going from her*, as a young girl of her bird, which she 
will let Lop a little from her hand, and pluck it back 
with a silken thread; and Romeo was as loath to part 
as she; for the sweetest music to lovers is the sound 
of each other's tongues at night. But at last they 
parted, wishing mutually sweet sleep and rest for that 
night. 

The day was breaking when they parted, and 
Romeo, who was too full of thoughts of his mistress 
and that blessed meeting to allow him to sleep, in- 
stead of going home, bent his course to a monastery 
hard by, to find friar Lawrence. The good friar was 
already up at his devotions, but seeing young Romeo 
abroad so early, he conjectured rightly that he had 
not been abed that night, but that some distemper of 
youthful affection had kept him waking. He was 



272 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

right in imputing the cause of Romeo's wakefulness to 
love, but he made a wrong guess at the object, for he 
thought that his love for Eosaline had kept him wak- 
ing. But when Eomeo revealed his new passion for 
Juliet, and requested the assistance of the friar to 
marry them that day, the holy man lifted up his eyes 
and hands in a sort of wonder at the sudden change 
in Romeo's affections, for he had been privy to all 
Romeo's love for Rosaline, and his many complaints of 
her disdain: and he said, that young men's love lay 
not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes. But Romeo 
replying, that he himself had often chidden him for 
doting on Rosaline, who could not love him again, 
whereas Juliet both loved and was beloved by him, 
the friar assented in some measure to his reasons; and 
thinking that a matrimonial alliance between young 
Juliet and Romeo might happily be the means of 
making up the long breach between the Capulets and 
the Mountagues; which no one more lamented than 
this good friar, who was a friend to both the families 
and had often interposed his mediation to make up 
the quarrel without effect; partly moved by policy, 
and partly by his fondness for young Romeo, to whom 
he could deny nothing, the old man consented to join 
their hands in marriage. 

Now was Romeo blessed indeed, and Juliet, who 
knew his intent from a messenger which she had dis- 
patched according to promise, did not fail to be early 
at the cell of friar Lawrence, where their hands were 
joined in holy marriage; the good friar praying the 
heavens to smile upon that act, and in the union of 
this young Mountague and young Capulet to bury the 
old strife and long dissensions of their families. 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 273 

The ceremony being over, Juliet hastened home, 
where she stayed impatient for the coming of night, 
at which time Romeo promised to come and meet her 
in the orchard, where they had met the night before; 
and the time between seemed as tedious to her, as the 
night before some great festival seems to an impatient 
child, that has got new finery which it may not put 
on till the morning. 

That same day, about noon, Romeo's friends, Ben- 
volio and Mercutio, walking through the streets of 
Verona, were met by a party of the Capulets with the 
impetuous Tybalt at their head. This was the same 
angry Tybalt who would have fought with Romeo at 
old lord Capulet's feast. He, seeing Mercutio, accused 
him bluntly of associating with Romeo, a Mountague. 
Mercutio, who had as much fire and youthful blood in 
him as Tybalt, replied to this accusation with some 
sharpness; and* in spite of all Benvolio could say to 
moderate their wrath, a quarrel was beginning, when 
Romeo himself passing that way, the fierce Tybalt 
turned from Mercutio to Romeo, and gave him the 
disgraceful appellation of villain. Romeo wished to 
avoid a quarrel with Tybalt above all men, because 
he was the kinsman of Juliet, and much beloved by her; 
besides, this young Mountague had never thoroughly 
entered into the family quarrel, being by nature wise 
and gentle, and the name of a Capulet, which was his 
dear lady's name, was now rather a charm to allay 
resentment, than a watchword to exite fury. So he 
tried to reason with Tybalt, whom he saluted mildly 
by the name of good Capulet, as if he, though a Moun- 
tague, had some secret pleasure in uttering that name: 
but Tybalt, who hated all Mountagues as he hated 
Tales from Shahspeare. lo 



274 TALES PROM SHAKSPBARE. 

hell, would hear no reason, but drew his weapon; and 
Mercutio, who knew not of Borneo's secret motive for 
desiring peace with Tybalt, but looked upon his present 
forbearance as a sort of calm dishonourable submission, 
with many disdainful words provoked Tybalt to the 
prosecution of his first quarrel with him; and Tybalt 
and Mercutio fought, till Mercutio fell, receiving his 
death's wound while Eomeo and Benvolio were vainly 
endeavouring to part the combatants. Mercutio being 
dead, Romeo kept his temper no longer, but returned 
the scornful appellation of villain which Tybalt had 
given him; and they fought till Tybalt was slain by 
Romeo. This deadly broil falling out in the midst of 
Verona at noonday, the news of it quickly brought a 
crowd of citizens to the spot, and among them the old 
lords Capulet and Mountague, with their wives; and 
soon after arrived the prince himself, who being related 
to Mercutio, whom Tybalt had slain, and having had 
the peace of his government often disturbed by these 
brawls of Mountagues and Capulets, came determined 
to put the law in strictest force against those who 
should be found to be offenders. Benvolio, who had 
been eyewitness to the fray, was commanded by the 
prince to relate the origin of it; which he did, keeping 
as near the truth as he could without injury to Romeo, 
softening and excusing the part which his friends took 
in it. Lady Capulet, whose extreme grief for the loss 
of her kinsman Tybalt made her keep no bounds in 
her revenge, exhorted the prince to do strict justice 
upon his murderer, and to pay no attention to Benvolio's 
representation, who being Romeo's friend, and a Moun- 
tague, spoke partially. Thus she pleaded against her 
new son-in-law, but she knew not yet that he was her 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 275 

son-in-law and Juliet's husband. On the other hand 
was to be seen lady Mountague pleading for her child's 
life, and arguing with some justice that Romeo had 
done nothing worthy of punishment in taking the life 
of Tybalt, which was already forfeited to the law by 
his having slain Mercutio. The prince, unmoved by 
the passionate exclamations of these women, on a care- 
ful examination of the facts, pronounced his sentence, 
and by that sentence Eomeo was banished from 
Verona. 

Heavy news to young Juliet, who had been but a 
few hours a bride, and now by this decree seemed 
everlastingly divorced! When the tidings reached her, 
slie at first gave way to rage against Romeo, who had 
slain her dear cousin: she called him a beautiful tyrant 
a fiend angelical, a ravenous dove, a lamb with a 
wolfs nature, a serpent-heart hid with a flowering 
face, and other like contradictory names, which denoted 
the struggles in her mind between her love and her 
resentment: but in the end love got the mastery, and 
the tears which she shed for grief that Romeo had 
slain her cousin, turned to drops of joy that- her hus- 
band lived whom Tybalt would have slain. Then 
came fresh tears, and they were altogether of grief for 
Romeo's banishment. That word was more terrible to 
her than the death of many Tybalts. 

Romeo, after the fray, had taken refuge in friar 
Lawrence's cell, where he was first made acquainted 
with the prince's sentence, which seemed to him far 
more terrible than death. To him it appeared there 
was no world out of Verona's walls, no living out of 
the sight of Juliet. Heaven was there where Juliet 
lived, and all beyond was purgatory, torture, hell. 

18* 



276 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

The good friar would have applied the consolation of 
philosophy to his griefs; hut this frantic young man 
would hear of none, but like a madman he tore his 
hair, and threw himself all along upon the ground, as 
he said, to take the measure of his grave. From this 
unseemly state he was roused by a message from his 
dear lady, which a little revived him; and then the 
friar took the advantage to expostulate with him on 
the unmanly weakness which he had shown. He had 
slain Tybalt, but would he also slay himself, slay his 
dear lady who lived but in his life? The noble form 
of man, he said, was but a shape of wax, when it 
wanted the courage which should keep it firm. The 
law had been lenient to him, that instead of death, 
which he had incurred, had pronounced by the prince's 
mouth only banishment. He had slain Tybalt, but 
Tybalt would have slain him : there was a sort of hap- 
piness in that. Juliet was alive, and (beyond all hope) 
had become his dear wife, therein he was most happy. 
All these blessings, as the friar made them out to be, 
did Romeo put from him like a sullen misbehaved 
wench. And the friar bade him beware, for such as 
despaired (he said) died miserable. Then when Eomeo 
was a little calmed, he counselled him that he should 
go that night and secretly take his leave of Juliet, and 
thence proceed straightways to Mantua, at which place 
he should sojourn, till the friar found fit occasion to 
publish his marriage, which might be a joyful means 
of reconciling their families; and then he did not doubt 
but the prince would be moved to pardon him, and he 
would return with twenty times more joy than he went 
forth with grief. Romeo was convinced by these wise 
counsels of the friar, and took his leave to go and seek 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 277 

his lady, proposing to stay with her that night, and by 
daybreak pursue his journey alone to Mantua; to which 
place the good friar promised to send him letters from 
time to time, acquainting him with the state of affairs 
at home. 

That night Romeo passed with his dear wife, gaining 
secret admission to her chamber, from the orchard in 
which he had heard her confession of love the night 
before. That had been a night of unmixed joy and 
rapture; but the pleasures of this night, and the delight 
which these lovers took in each other's society, were 
sadly allayed with the prospect of parting, and the fatal 
adventures of the past day. The unwelcome daybreak 
seemed to come too soon, and when Juliet heard the 
morning song of the lark, she would fain have persuaded 
herself that it was the nightingale, which sings by night; 
but it was too truly the lark which sung, and a dis- 
cordant and unpleasing note it seemed to her; and the 
streaks of day in the east too certainly pointed out that 
it was time for these lovers to part Komeo took his 
leave of his dear wife with a heavy heart, promising 
to write to her from Mantua every hour in the day; 
and when he had descended from her chamber-window, 
as he stood below her on the ground, in that sad fore- 
boding state of mind, in which she was, he appeared 
to her eyes as one dead in the bottom of a tomb. Ro- 
meo's mind misgave him in like manner; but now he 
was forced hastily to depart, for it was death for him 
to be found within the walls of Verona after daybreak. 

This was but the beginning of the tragedy of this 
pair of star-crossed lovers. Romeo had not been gone 
many days, before the old lord Capulet proposed a 
match for Juliet. The husband he had chosen for her, 



278 TALES FROM SHAKStfEARE. 

not dreaming that she was married already, was count 
Paris, a gallant, young, and noble gentleman, no un- 
worthy suitor to the young Juliet, if she had never 
seen Romeo. 

The terrified Juliet was in a sad perplexity at her 
father's offer. She pleaded her youth unsuitable to 
marriage, the recent death of Tybalt, which had left 
her spirits too weak to meet a husband with any face 
of joy, and how indecorous it would show for the family 
of the Capulets to be celebrating a nuptial feast, when 
his funeral solemnities were hardly over: she pleaded 
every reason against the match, but the true one, 
namely, that she was married already. But lord Ca- 
pulet was deaf to all her excuses, and in a peremptory 
manner ordered her to get ready, for by the following 
Thursday she should be married to Paris: and having 
found her a husband, rich, young, and noble, such as 
the proudest maid in Verona might joyfully accept, he 
could not bear that out of an affected coyness, as he 
construed her denial, she should oppose obstacles to her 
own good fortune. 

In this extremity Juliet applied to the friendly friar, 
always her counsellor in distress, and he asking her if 
she Uad resolution to undertake a desperate remedy, 
and she answering that she would go into the grave 
alive, rather than marry Paris, her own dear husband 
living; he directed her to go home, and appear merry, 
and give her consent to marry Paris, according to her 
father's desire, and on the next night, which was the 
night before the marriage, to drink off the contents of 
a phial which he then gave her, the effect of which 
would be, that for two-and-forty hours after drinking 
it she should appear cold and lifeless*, that when the 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 279 

bridegroom came to fetch her in the morning, he would 
find her to appearance dead; that then she would be 
borne, as the manner in that country was, uncovered 
on a bier, to be buried in the family vault; that if she 
could put off womanish fear, and consent to this terrible 
trial, in forty-two hours after swallowing the liquid 
(such was its certain operation) she would be sure to 
awake, as from a dream; and before she should awake, 
he would let her husband know their drift, and he should 
come in the night, and bear her thence to Mantua. 
Love, and the dread of marrying Paris, gave young 
Juliet strength to undertake this horrible adventure; 
and she took the phial of the friar, promising to observe 
his directions. 

Going from the monastery, she met the young count 
Paris, and modestly dissembling, promised to become 
his bride. This was joyful news to the lord Capulet 
and his wife.* It seemed to put youth into the old 
man; and Juliet, who had displeased him exceedingly, 
by her refusal of the count, was his darling again, now 
she promised to be obedient. All things in the house 
were in a bustle against the approaching nuptials. No 
cost was spared to prepare such festival rejoicings, as 
Verona had never before witnessed. 

On the Wednesday night Juliet drank off the po- 
tion. She had many misgivings lest the friar, to avoid 
the blame which might be imputed to him for marrying 
her to Eomeo, had given her poison; but then he was 
always known for a holy man: then lest she should 
awake before the time that Eomeo was to come for 
her; whether the terror of the place, a vault full of 
dead Capulets' bones, and where Tybalt, all bloody, 
lay festering in his shroud, would not be enough to 



280 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

drive her distracted: again she thought of all the stories 
she had heard of spirits haunting the places where their 
bodies were bestowed. But then her love for Romeo, 
and her aversion for Paris returned, and she desperately 
swallowed the draught, and became insensible. 

When young Paris came early in the morning with 
music to awaken his bride, instead of a living Juliet, 
her chamber presented the dreary spectacle of a lifeless 
corse. What death to his hopes 1 What confusion then 
reigned through the whole house! Poor Paris lamenting 
his bride, whom most detestable death had beguiled 
him of, had divorced from him even before their hands 
were joined. But still more piteous it was to hear the 
mournings of the old lord and lady Capulet, who having 
but this one, one poor loving child to rejoice and solace 
in, cruel death had snatched her from their sight, just 
as these careful parents were on the point of seeing her 
advanced (as they thought) by a promising and ad- 
vantageous match. Now all things that were ordained 
for the festival, were turned from their properties to do 
the office of a black funeral. The wedding cheer served 
for a sad burial feast, the bridal hymns were changed 
for sullen dirges, the sprightly instruments to melancholy 
bells, and the flowers that should have been strewed in 
the bride's path, now served but to strew her corse. 
Now, instead of a priest to marry her, a priest was 
needed to bury her; and she was borne to church 
indeed, not to augment the cheerful hopes of the living, 
but to swell the dreary numbers of the dead. 

Bad news, which always travels faster than good, 
now brought the dismal story of his Juliet's death to 
Romeo, at Mantua, before the messenger could arrive, 
who was sent from friar Lawrence to apprize him that 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 281 

these were mock funerals only, and but the shadow 
and representation of death, and that his dear lady lay 
in the tomb but for a short while, expecting when Ro- 
meo would come to release her from that dreary mansion. 
Just before, Romeo had been unusually joyful and light- 
hearted. He had dreamed in the night that he was 
dead (a strange dream, that gave a dead man leave to 
think), and that his lady came and found him dead, 
and breathed such life with kisses in his lips, that he 
revived, and was an emporor! And now that a messenger 
came from Verona, he thought surely it was to confirm 
some good news which his dreanis had presaged. But 
when the contrary to this nattering vision appeared, 
and that it was his lady who was dead in truth, whom 
he could not revive by any kisses, he ordered horses 
to be got ready, for he determined that night to visit 
Verona, and to see his lady in her tomb. And as mis- 
chief is swift to enter into the thoughts of desperate 
men, he called to mind a poor apothecary, whose shop 
in Mantua he had lately passed, and from the beggarly 
appearance of the man, who seemed famished, and the 
wretched show in his shop of empty boxes ranged on 
dirty shelves, and other tokens of extreme wretchedness, 
he had said at the time (perhaps having some misgivings 
that his own disastrous life might haply meet with a 
conclusion so desperate), "If a man were to need poison, 
which by the law of Mantua it is death to sell, here 
lives a poor wretch who would sell it him." These 
words of his now came into his mind, and he sought 
out the apothecary, who after some pretended scruples, 
Romeo offering him gold, which his poverty could not 
resist, sold him a poison, which, if he swallowed, he 



282 TALES PROM SHAKSPEARE. 

told liim, if lie liad the strength of twenty men, would 
quickly despatch him. 

With this poison he set out for Verona, to have a 
sight of his dear lady in her tomb, meaning, when he 
had satisfied his sight, to swallow the poison, and be 
buried by her side. He reached Verona at midnight, 
and found the churchyard, in the midst of which was 
situated the ancient tomb of the Capulets. He had 
provided a light, and a spade, and wrenching iron, and 
was proceeding to break open the monument, when he 
was interrupted by a voice, which lay the name of vile 
Mountague, bade him desist from his unlawful business. 
It was the young count Paris, who had come to the 
tomb of Juliet at that unseasonable time of night, to 
strew flowers, and to weep over the grave of her that 
should have been his bride. He knew not what an 
interest Eomeo had in the dead, but knowing him to 
be a Mountague, and (as he supposed) a sworn foe to 
all the Capulets, he judged that he was come by night 
to do some villanous sha^me to the dead bodies 5 there- 
fore in an angry tone he bade him desist; and as a 
criminal, condemned by the laws of Verona to die if 
he were found within the walls of the city, he would 
have apprehended him. Romeo urged Paris to leave 
him, and warned him by the fate of Tybalt, who lay 
buried there, not to provoke his anger, or draw down 
another sin upon his head, by forcing him to kill him. 
But the count in scorn refused his warning, and laid 
hands on him as a felon, which Romeo resisting, they 
fought, and Paris fell. When Romeo, by the help of 
a light, came to see who it was that he had slain, that 
it was Paris, who (he learned in his way from Mantua) 



EOMEO AND JULIET. 283 

should have married Juliet, he took the dead youth 
by the hand, as one whom misfortune had made a 
companion, and said that he would bury him in a 
triumphal grave, meaning in Juliet's grave, which he 
now opened: and there lay his lady, as one whom 
death had no power upon to change a feature or com- 
plexion in her matchless beauty, or as if Death were 
amorous, and the lean abhorred moDster kept her there 
for his delight; for she lay yet fresh and blooming, as 
she had fallen to sleep when she swallowed that 
benumbing potion; and near her lay Tybalt in his 
bloody shroud, whom Romeo seeing, begged pardon of 
his lifeless corse, and for Juliet's sake called him 
cousin, and said that he was about to do him a favour 
by putting his enemy to death. Here Romeo took his 
last leave of his lady's lips, kissing them; and here 
he shook the burden of his cross stars from his weary 
body, swallowing that poison which the apothecary had 
sold him, whose operation was fatal and real, not like 
that dissembling potion which Juliet had swallowed, 
the effect of which was now nearly expiring, and she 
about to awake to complain that Romeo had not kept 
his time, or that he had come too soon. 

For now the hour was arrived at which the friar 
had promised that she should awake; and he, having 
learned that his letters which he had sent to Mantua, 
by some unlucky detention of the messenger, had never 
reached Romeo, came himself, provided with a pickaxe 
and lantern, to deliver the lady from her confinement; 
but he was surprised to find a light already burning 
in the Capulets' monument, and to see swords and 
blood near it, and Romeo and Paris lying breathless 
by the monument. 



284 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

Before lie could entertain a conjecture, to imagine 
how these fatal accidents had fallen out, Juliet awoke 
out of her trance, and seeing the friar near her, she 
remembered the place where she was, and the occasion 
of her being there, and asked forEomeo, but the friar, 
hearing a noise, bade her come out of that place of 
death, and of unnatural sleep, for a greater power than 
they could contradict had thwarted their intents-, and 
being frightened by the noise of people coming, he 
fled: but when Juliet saw the cup closed in her true 
love's hands, she guessed that poison had been the 
cause of his end, and she would have swallowed the 
dregs if any had been left, and she kissed his still 
warm lips to try if any poison yet did hang upon 
them; then hearing a nearer noise of people coming, 
she quickly unsheathed a dagger which she wore, and 
stabbing herself, died by her true Romeo's side. 

The watch by this time had come up to the place. 
A page belonging to count Paris, who had witnessed 
the fight between his master and Romeo, had given the 
alarm, which had spread among the citizens, who went 
up and down the streets of Verona confusedly, exclaim- 
ing, A Paris! a Romeo! a Juliet! as the rumour had 
imperfectly reached them, till the uproar brought lord 
Mountague and lord Capulet out of their beds, with 
the prince, to inquire into the causes of the disturbance. 
The friar had been apprehended by some of the watch, 
coming from the churchyard, trembling, sighing, and 
weeping, in a suspicious manner. A great multitude 
being assembled at the Capulets' monument, the friar 
was demanded by the prince to deliver what he knew 
of these strange and disastrous accidents. 

And there, in the presence of the old lords Moun- 



UOMEO AND JULIET. 



235 



tague and Capulet, he faithfully related the story of 
their children's fatal love, the part he took in promoting 
their marriage, in the hope in that union to end the 
long quarrels between their families: how Romeo, there 
dead, was husband to Juliet; and Juliet, there dead, 
was Romeo's faithful wife; how before he could find a 
fit opportunity to divulge their marriage, another match 
was projected for Juliet, who, to avoid the crime of a 
second marriage, swallowed the sleeping draught (as he 
advised), and all thought her dead: how meantime he 
wrote to Romeo, to come and take her thence when 
the force of the potion should cease, and by what un- 
fortunate miscarriage of the messenger the letters never 
reached Romeo: further than this the friar could not 
follow the story, nor knew more than that coming him- 
self, to deliver Juliet from that place of death, he 
found the count Paris and Romeo slain. The remainder 
of the transactions was supplied by the narration of 
the page who had seen Paris and Romeo fight, and by 
the servant who came with Romeo from Verona, to 
whom this faithful lover had given letters to be de- 
livered to his father in the event of his death, which 
made good the friar's words, confessing his marriage 
with Juliet, imploring the forgiveness of his parents, 
acknowledging the buying of the poison of the poor 
apothecary, and his intent in coming to the monument, 
to die, and lie with Juliet. All these circumstances 
agreed together to clear the friar from any hand he 
could be supposed to have in these complicated 
slaughters, further than as the unintended consequences 
of his own well meant, yet too artificial and subtle 
contrivances. 

And the prince, turning to tlwse old lords, Moun- 



286 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

tague and Capulet, rebuked them for their brutal and 
irrational enmities, and showed them what a scourge 
Heaven had laid upon such offences, that it had found 
means even through the love of their children to punish 
their unnatural hate. And these old rivals, no longer 
enemies, agreed to bury their long strife in their 
children's graves; and lord Capulet requested lord 
Mountague to give him his hand, calling him by the 
name of brother, as if in acknowledgment of the union 
of their families, by the marriage of the young Capulet 
and Mountague; and saying that lord Mountague' s 
hand (in token of reconcilement) was all he demanded 
for his daughter's jointure: but lord Mountague said 
he would give him more, for he would raise her a 
statue of pure gold, that while Verona kept its name, 
no figure should be so esteemed for its richness and 
workmanship as that of the true and faithful Juliet. 
And lord Capulet in return said that he would raise 
another statue to Romeo. So did these poor old lords, 
when it was too late, strive to outgo each other in 
mutual courtesies; while so deadly had been their rage 
and enmity in past times, that nothing but the fearful 
overthrow of their children (poor sacrifices to their 
quarrels and dissensions) could remove the rooted hates 
and jealousies of the noble families. 



HAMLET, PRLNCE OF DENMARK. 287 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 



Gertrude, queen of Denmark, becoming a widow 
by the sudden death of King Hamlet, in less than two 
months after his death married his brother Claudius, 
which was noted by all people at the time for a strange 
act of indiscretion, or unfeelingness , or worse: for this 
Claudius did no ways resemble her late husband in the 
qualities of his person or his mind, but was as con- 
temptible in outward appearance, as he was base and 
unworthy in disposition-, and suspicions did not fail to 
arise in the minds of some, that he had privately made 
away with his brother, the late king, with the view of 
marrying his widow, and ascending the throne of Den- 
mark, to the exclusion of young Hamlet, the son of 
the buried king, and lawful successor to the throne. 

But upon no one did this unadvised action of the 
queen make such impression as upon this young prince, 
who loved and venerated the memory of his dead fa- 
ther almost to idolatry, and being of a nice sense of 
honour, and a most exquisite practiser of propriety 
himself, did sorely take to heart this unworthy conduct 
of his mother Gertrude: insomuch that, between grief 
for his father's death and shame for his mother's mar- 
riage, this young prince was overclouded with a deep 
melancholy, and lost all his mirth and all his good 
looks; all his customary pleasure in books forsook him, 



288 TALKS PROM SHAKSPEARE. 

his princely exercises and sports, proper to his youth, 
were no longer acceptable; he grew weary of the world, 
which seemed to him an unweeded garden, where all 
the wholesome flowers were choked up, and nothing 
but weeds could thrive. Not that the prospect of ex- 
clusion from the throne, his lawful inheritance, weighed 
so much upon his spirits, though that to a young and 
high-minded prince was a bitter wound and a sore in- 
dignity, but what so galled him, and took away all 
his cheerful spirits, was, that his mother had shown 
herself so forgetful to his father's memory: and such a 
father! who had been to her so loving and so gentle a 
husband! and then she always appeared as loving and 
obedient a wife to him, and would hang upon him as 
if her affection grew to him: and now within two 
months, or as it seemed to young Hamlet, less than 
two months, she had married again, married his uncle, 
her dear husband's brother, in itself a highly improper 
and unlawful marriage, from the nearness of relation- 
ship, but made much more so by the indecent haste 
with which it was concluded, and the unkingly char- 
acter of the man whom she had chosen to be the partner 
of her throne and bed. This it was, which more than 
the loss of ten kingdoms, dashed the spirits and brought 
a cloud over the mind of this honourable young prince. 
In vain was all that his mother Gertrude or the 
king could do to contrive to divert him; he still ap- 
peared in court in a suit of deep black, as mourning 
for the king his father's death, which mode of dress 
he had never laid aside, not even in compliment to his 
mother upon the day she was married, nor could he be 
brought to join in any of the festivities or rejoicings of 
that (as appeared to him) disgraceful day. 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 289 

What mostly troubled him was an uncertainty 
about the manner of his father's death. It was given 
out by Claudius, that a serpent had stung him; but 
young Hamlet had shrewd suspicions that Claudius 
himself was the serpent; in plain English, that he had 
murdered him for his crown, and that the serpent who 
stung his father did now sit on the throne. 

How far he was right in this conjecture, and what 
he ought to think of his mother, how far she was privy 
to this murder, and whether by her consent or know- 
ledge, or without, it came to pass, were the doubts 
which continually harassed and distracted him. 

A rumour had reached the ear of young Hamlet, 
that an apparition, exactly resembling the dead king 
his father, had been seen by the soldiers upon watch, 
on the platform before the palace at midnight, for two 
or three nights successively. The figure came con- 
stantly clad in the same suit of armour, from head to 
foot, which the dead king was known to have worn: 
and they who saw it (Hamlet's bosom friend Horatio 
was one) agreed in their testimony as to the time 
and manner of its appearance: that it came just as the 
clock struck twelve; that it looked pale, with a face 
more of sorrow than of anger; that its beard was grisly, 
and the colour a sable silvered, as they had seen it in 
his lifetime: that it made no answer when they spoke 
to it, yet once they thought it lifted up its head, and 
addressed itself to motion, as if it were about to speak; 
but in that moment the morning cock crew, and it 
shrunk in haste away, and vanished out of their 
sight. 

The young prince, strangely amazed at their re- 
lation, which was too consistent and agreeing with it- 

Tales from Shakspeare. 19 



290 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

self to disbelieve, concluded that it was his father's 
ghost which they had seen, and determined to take his 
watch with the soldiers that night, that he might have 
a chance of seeing it: for he reasoned with himself, 
that such an appearance did not come for nothing, 
but that the ghost had something to impart, and though 
it had been silent hitherto, yet it would speak to him. 
And he waited with impatience for the coming of 
night. 

When night came he took his stand with Horatio, 
and Marcellus, one of the guard, upon the platform 
where this apparition was accustomed to walk: and it 
being a cold night, and the air unusually raw and 
nipping, Hamlet and Horatio and their companion fell 
into some talk about the coldness of the night, which 
was suddenly broken off by Horatio announcing that 
the ghost was coming. 

At the sight of his father's spirit, Hamlet was 
struck with a sudden surprise and fear. He at first 
called upon the angels and heavenly ministers to de- 
fend them, for he knew not whether it were a good 
spirit or bad; whether it came for good or evil: but he 
gradually assumed more courage; and his father (as it 
seemed to him) looked upon him so piteously, and as 
it were desiring to have conversation with him, and 
did in all respects appear so like himself as he was 
when he lived, that Hamlet could not help addressing 
him : he called him by his name, Hamlet, King, Father ! 
and conjured him that he would tell the reason why he 
had left his grave, where they had seen him quietly 
bestowed, to come again and visit the earth and the 
moonlight: and besought him that he would let them 
know if there was anything which they could do to 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 291 

give peace to bis spirit. And the ghost beckoned to 
Hamlet, that he should go with him to some more re- 
moved place, where they might be alone; and Horatio 
and Marcellus would have dissuaded the young prince 
from following it, for they feared lest it should be 
some evil spirit, who would tempt him to the neigh- 
bouring sea, or to the top of some dreadful cliff, and 
there put on some horrible shape which might deprive 
the prince of his reason. But their counsels and entreat- 
ies could not alter Hamlet's determination, who cared 
too little about life to fear the losing of it: and as to 
his soul, he said, what could the spirit do to that, 
being a thing immortal as itself? And he felt as hardy 
as a lion, and bursting from them, who did all they 
could to hold him, he followed whithersoever the spirit 
led him. 

And when* they were alone together, the spirit 
broke silence, and told him that he was the ghost of 
Hamlet, his father, who had been cruelly murdered, 
and he told the manner of it; that it was done by his 
own brother Claudius, Hamlet's uncle, as Hamlet had 
already but too much suspected, for the hope of 
succeeding to his bed and crown. That as he was 
sleeping in his garden, his custom always in the after- 
noon, his treasonous brother stole upon him in his 
sleep, and poured the juice of poisonous henbane into 
his ears, which has such an antipathy to the life of 
man, that swift as quicksilver it courses through all 
the veins of the body, baking up the blood, and 
spreading a crust-like leprosy all over the skin: thus 
sleeping, by a brother's hand he was cut off at once from 
his crown, his queen, and his life: and he adjured 
Hamlet, if he did ever his dear father love, that he 

19* 



292 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

would revenge his foul murder. And the ghost lamented 
to his son, that his mother should so fall off from vir- 
tue, as to prove false to the wedded love of her first 
husband, and to marry his murderer: but he cautioned 
Hamlet, howsoever he proceeded in his revenge against 
his wicked uncle, by no means to act any violence 
against the person of his mother, but to leave her to 
heaven, and to the stings and thorns of conscience. 
And Hamlet promised to observe the ghost's direction 
in all things, and the ghost vanished. 

And when Hamlet was left alone, he took up a so- 
lemn resolution, that all he had in his memory, all 
that he had ever learned by books or observation, 
should be instantly forgotten by him, and nothing live 
in his brain but the memory of what the ghost had 
told him, and enjoined him to do. And Hamlet related 
the particulars of the conversation which had passed, 
to none but his dear friend Horatio; and he enjoined 
both to him and Marcellus the strictest secrecy as to 
what they had seen that night. 

The terror which the sight of the ghost had left 
upon the senses of Hamlet, he being weak and dis- 
pirited before, almost unhinged his mind, and drove him 
beside his reason. And he, fearing that it would con- 
tinue to have this effect, which might subject him to 
observation, and set his uncle upon his guard, if 
he suspected that he was meditating anything against 
him, or that Hamlet really knew more of his father's 
death than he professed, took up a strange resolution, 
from that time to counterfeit as it he were really and 
truly mad; thinking that he would be less an object 
of suspicion when his uncle should believe him in- 
capable of any serious project, and that his real per* 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 293 

turbation of mind would be best covered and pass con- 
cealed under a disguise of pretended lunacy. 

From this time Hamlet affected a certain wildness 
and strangeness in his apparel, his speech, and be- 
haviour, and did so excellently counterfeit the madman, 
that the king and queen were both deceived, and not 
thinking his grief for his father's death a sufficient 
cause to produce such a distemper, for they knew not 
of the appearance of the ghost, they concluded that his 
malady was love-, and they thought they had found 
out the object. 

Before Hamlet fell into the melancholy way which 
has been related, he had dearly loved a fair maid 
called Ophelia, the daughter of Polonius, the king's 
chief counsellor in affairs of state. He had sent her 
letters and rings, and made many tenders of his affec- 
tion to her, aild importuned her with love in honour- 
able fashion : and she had given belief to his vows and 
importunities. But the melancholy which he fell into 
latterly had made him neglect her, and from the time 
he conceived the project of counterfeiting madness, he 
affected to treat her with unkindness, and a sort of 
rudeness; but she, good lady, rather than reproach him 
with being false to her, persuaded herself that it was 
nothing but the disease in his mind, and no settled 
unkindness, which had made him less observant of her 
than formerly; and she compared the faculties of his 
once noble mind and excellent understanding, impaired 
as they were with the deep melancholy that oppressed 
him, to sweet bells which in themselves are capable of 
most exquisite music, but when jangled out of tune, 
or rudely handled, produce only a harsh and un- 
pleasing sound. 



294 TALES FROM. SHAKSPEAKE. 

Though the rough business which Hamlet had in 
hand, the revenging of his father's death upon his 
murderer, did not suit with the playful state of court- 
ship, or admit of the society of so idle a passion as 
love now seemed to him, yet it could not hinder but 
that soft thoughts of his Ophelia would come between, 
and in one of these moments, when he thought that 
his treatment of this gentle lady had been unreason- 
ably harsh, he wrote her a letter full of wild starts of 
passion, and in extravagant terms, such as agreed with 
his supposed madness, but mixed with some gentle 
touches of affection, which could not but show to this 
honoured lady, that a deep love for her yet lay at the 
bottom of his heart. He bade her to doubt the stars 
were fire, and to doubt that the sun did move, to 
doubt truth to be a liar, but never to doubt that he 
loved; with more of such extravagant phrases. This 
letter Ophelia dutifully showed to her father, and the 
old man thought himself bound to communicate it to 
the king and queen, who from that time supposed that 
the true cause of Hamlet's madness was love. And 
the queen wished that the good beauties of Ophelia 
might be the happy cause of his wildness, for so she 
hoped that her virtues might happily restore him to 
his accustomed way again, to both their honours. 

But Hamlet's malady lay deeper than she sup- 
posed, or than could be so cured. His father's ghost, 
which he had seen, still haunted his imagination, and 
the sacred injunction to revenge his murder gave him 
no rest till it was accomplished. Every hour of delay 
seemed to him a sin, and a violation of his father's 
commands. Yet how to compass the death of the king, 
surrounded as he constantly was with his guards, was 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 295 

no easy matter. Or if it had been, the presence of 
the queen, Hamlet's mother, who was generally with 
the king, was a restraint upon his purpose, which he 
could not break through. Besides, the very circum- 
stance that the usurper was his mother's husband, filled 
him with some remorse, and still blunted the edge of 
his purpose. The mere act of putting a fellow- creature 
to death was in itself odious and terrible to a disposi- 
tion naturally so gentle as Hamlet's was. His very 
melancholy, and the dejection of spirits he had so long 
been in, produced an irresoluteness and wavering of 
purpose, which kept him from proceeding to extremi- 
ties. Moreover, he could not help having some scruples 
upon his mind, whether the spirit which he had seen 
was indeed his father, or whether it might not be the 
devil, who he had heard has power to take any form 
he pleases, and who might have assumed his father's 
shape only to take advantage of his weaknesss and 
his melancholy, to drive him to the doing of so des- 
perate an act as murder. And he determined that he 
would have more certain grounds to go upon than a 
vision, or apparition, which might be a delusion. 

While he was in this irresolute mind there came 
to the court certain players, in whom Hamlet formerly 
used to take delight, and particularly to hear one of 
them speak a tragical speech, describing the death of 
old Priam, king of Troy, with the grief of Hecuba his 
queen. Hamlet welcomed his old friends, the players, 
and remembering how that speech had formerly given 
him pleasure, requested the player to repeat it; which 
he did in so lively a manner, setting forth the cruel 
murder of the feeble old king, with the destruction of 
his people and city by fire, and the mad grief of the 



296 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

old queen, running barefoot up and down the palace, 
with a poor clout upon that head where a crown had 
been, and with nothing but a blanket upon her loins, 
snatched up in haste, where she had worn a royal 
robe: that not only it drew tears from all that stood 
by, who thought they saw the real scene, so lively was 
it represented, but even the player himself delivered it 
with a broken voice and real tears. This put Hamlet 
upon thinking, if that player could so work himself up 
to passion by a mere fictitious speech, to weep for one 
that he had never seen, for Hecuba, that had been 
dead so many hundred years, how dull was he, who 
having a real motive and cue for passion, a real king 
and a dear father murdered, was yet so little moved, 
that his revenge all this while had seemed to have 
slept in dull and muddy forgetfulness ! and while he 
meditated on actors and acting, and the powerful 
effects which a good play, represented to the life, has 
upon the spectator, he remembered the instance of 
some murderer, who seeing a murder on the stage, was 
by the mere force of the scene and resemblance of 
circumstances so affected, that on the spot he con- 
fessed the crime which he had committed. And he 
determined that these players should play something 
like the murder of his father before his uncle, and he 
would watch narrowly what effect it might have upon 
him, and from his looks he would be able to gather 
with more certainty if he were the murderer or not. 
To this effect he ordered a play to be prepared, to 
the representation of which he invited the king and 
queen. 

The story of the play was of a murder done in 
Vienna upon a duke The duke's name wasGonzago, 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 297 

his wife Baptista. The play showed how one Lueianus, 
a near relation to the duke, poisoned him in his garden 
for his estate, and how the murderer in a short time 
after got the love of Gonzago's wife. 

At the representation of this play, the king, who 
did not know the trap which was laid for him, was 
present, with his queen and the whole court: Hamlet 
sitting attentively near him to observe his looks. The 
play began with a conversation between Gonzago and 
his wife, in which the lady made many protestations 
of love, and of never marrying a second husband, if 
she should outlive Gonzago; wishing she might be ac- 
cursed if she ever took a second husband, and adding 
that no woman did so, but those wicked women who 
kill their first husbands. Hamlet observed the king, 
his uncle, change colour at this expression, and that it 
was as bad as wormwood both to him and to the 
queen. But when Lueianus, according to the story, 
came to poison Gonzago sleeping in the garden, the 
strong resemblance which it bore to his own wicked 
act upon the late king, his brother, whom he had 
poisoned in his garden, so struck upon the conscience 
of this usurper, that he was unable to sit out the rest 
of the play, but on a sudden calling for lights to his 
chamber, and affecting or partly feeling a sudden sick- 
ness, he abruptly left the theatre. The king being 
departed, the play was given over. Now Hamlet had 
seen enough to be satisfied that the words of the ghost 
were true, and no illusion 5 and in a fit of gaiety, like 
that which comes over a man who suddenly has some 
great doubt or scruple resolved, he swore to Horatio, 
that he would take the ghost's word for a thousand 
pounds. But before he could make up his resolution 



U98 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

as to what measures of revenge he should take, now 
he was certainly informed that his uncle was his 
father's murderer, he was sent for by the queen, his 
mother, to a private conference in her closet. 

It was by desire of the king that the queen sent 
for Hamlet, that she might signify to her son how 
much his late behaviour had displeased them both; 
and the king, wishing to know all that passed at that 
conference, and thinking that the too partial report of 
a mother might let slip some part of Hamlet's words, 
which it might much import the king to know, Po- 
lonius, the old counsellor of state, was ordered to plant 
himself behind the hangings in the queen's closet, 
where he might unseen hear all that passed. This 
artifice was particularly adapted to the disposition of 
Polonius, who was a man grown old in crooked maxims 
and policies of state, and delighted to get at the know- 
ledge of matters in an indirect and cunning way. 

Hamlet being come to his mother, she began to 
tax him in the roundest way with his actions and 
behaviour, and she told him that he had given 
great offence to his father , meaning the king, his 
uncle, whom, because he had married her, she 
called Hamlet's father. Hamlet, sorely indignant that 
she should give so dear and honoured a name as father 
seemed to him, to a wretch who was indeed no better 
than the murderer of his true father, with some sharp- 
ness replied, "Mother, you have much offended my 
father." The queen said that was but an idle answer. 
"As good as the question deserved," said Hamlet. The 
queen asked him if he had forgotton who it was he 
was speaking to? "Alas!" replied Hamlet, "I wish 
I could forget. You are the queen, your husband's 



HAMLET, PKINCE OF DENMARK. 2 9 'J 

brother's wife; and you are my mother: I wish you 
were not what you are." "Nay, then," said the queen, 
"if you show me so little respect, I will set those to 
you that can speak," and was going to send the king 
or Polonius to him. But Hamlet would not let her go, 
now he had her alone, till he had tried if his words 
could not bring her to some sense of her wicked life; 
and, taking her by the wrist, he held her fast, and 
made her sit down. She, affrighted at his earnest 
manner, and fearful lest in his lunacy he should do 
her a mischief, cried out; and a voice was heard from 
behind the hangings, "Help, help, the queen!" which 
Hamlet hearing, and verily thinking that it was the 
king himself there concealed, he drew his sword and 
stabbed at the place where the voice came from, as he 
would have stabbed a rat that ran there, till the voice 
ceasing, he concluded the person to be dead. But 
when he dragged forth the body, it was not the king, 
but Polonius, the old officious counsellor, that had 
planted himself as a spy behind the hangings. "Oh 
me!" exclaimed the queen, "what a rash and bloody 
deed have you done!" "A bloody deed, mother," 
replied Hamlet, "but not so bad as yours, who killed 
a king, and married his brother." Hamlet had gone 
too far to leave off here. He was now in the humour 
to speak plainly to his mother, and he pursued it. 
And though the faults of parents are to be tenderly 
treated by their children, yet in the case of great 
crimes the son may have leave to speak even to his 
own mother with some harshness, so as that harshness 
is meant for her good, and to turn her from her wicked 
ways, and not done for the purpose of upbraiding. 
And now this virtuous prince did in moving terms re- 



300 TALES PROM SBAKSPEARE. 

present to the queen the heinousness of her offence, in 
being so forgetful of the dead king, his father, as in 
so short a space of time to marry with his brother and 
reputed murderer: such an act as, after the vows which 
she had sworn to her first husband, was enough to 
make all vows of women suspected, and all virtue to 
be accounted hypocrisy, wedding contracts to be less 
than gamesters' oaths, and religion to be a mockery 
and a mere form of words. He said she had done 
such a deed, that the heavens blushed at it, and the 
earth was sick of her because of it. And he showed 
her two pictures, the one of the late king, her first 
husband, and the other of the present king, her second 
husband, and he bade her mark the difference: what 
a grace was on the brow of his father, how like a god 
he looked! the curls of Apollo, the forehead of Jupiter, 
the eye of Mars, and a posture like to Mercury newly 
alighted on some heaven-kissing hill! this man, he said, 
had been her husband. And then he showed her whom 
she had got in his stead: how like a blight or a mil- 
dow he looked, for so he had blasted his wholesome 
brother. And the queen was sore ashamed that he 
should so turn her eyes inward upon her soul, which 
she now saw so black and deformed. And he asked 
her how she could continue to live with this man, and 
be a wife to him, who had murdered her first husband, 
and got the crown by as false means as a thief — and 
just as he spoke, the ghost of his father, such as he 
was in his lifetime, and such as he had lately seen it, 
entered the room, and Hamlet, in great terror, asked 
what it would have; and the ghost said that it came 
to remind him of the revenge he had promised, which 
Hamlet seemed to have forgot*, and the ghost bade 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 301 

him speak to his mother, for the grief and terror she 
was in would else kill her. It then vanished, and was 
seen by none but Hamlet, neither could he by pointing 
to where it stood, or by any description, make his 
mother perceive it-, who was terribly frightened all this 
while to hear him conversing, as it seemed to her, with 
nothing; and she imputed it to the disorder of his 
mind. But Hamlet begged her not to flatter her wicked 
soul in such a manner as to think that it was his mad- 
ness, and not her own offences, which had brought his 
father's spirit again on the earth. And he bade her 
feel his pulse, how temperately it beat, not like a 
madman's. And he begged of her with tears, to con- 
fess herself to heaven for what was past, and for the 
future to avoid the company of the king, and be no 
more as a wife to him: and when she should show her- 
self a mother to him, by respecting his father's memory, 
he would ask a blessing of her as a son. And she 
promising to* observe his directions, the conference 
ended. 

And now Hamlet was at leisure to consider who it 
was that in his unfortunate rashness he had killed: 
and when he came to see that it was Polonius, the 
father of the lady Ophelia, whom he so dearly loved, 
he drew apart the dead body, and, his spirits being 
now a little quieter, he wept for what he had done. 

The unfortunate death of Polonius gave the king 
a pretence for sending Hamlet out of the kingdom. He 
would willingly have put him to death, fearing him as 
dangerous; but he dreaded the people, who loved 
Hamlet; and the queen, who, with all her faults, doted 
upon the prince, her son* So this subtle king, under 
pretence of providing for Hamlet's safety, that he might 



302 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

not be called to account for Polonius' death, caused 
him to be conveyed on board a ship bound for Eng- 
land, under the care of two courtiers, by whom he 
despatched letters to the English court, which in that 
time was in subjection and paid tribute to Denmark, 
requiring for special reasons there pretended, that 
Hamlet should be put to death as soon as he landed 
on English ground. Hamlet, suspecting some treachery, 
in the night-time secretly got at the letters, and skil- 
fully erasing his own name, he in the stead of it put 
in the names of those two courtiers who had the charge 
of him, to be put to death: then sealing up the letters, 
he put them into their place again. Soon after the 
ship was attacked by pirates, and a sea-fight com- 
menced; in the course of which Hamlet, desirous to 
show his valour, with sword in hand singly boarded 
the enemy's vessel; while his own ship, in a cowardly 
manner, bore away, and leaving him to his fate, the 
two courtiers made the best of their way to England, 
charged with those letters the sense of which Hamlet 
had altered to their own deserved destruction. 

The pirates who had the prince in their power, 
showed themselves gentle enemies; and knowing whom 
they had got prisoner, in the hope that the prince 
might do them a good turn at court in recompense for 
any favour they might show him, they set Hamlet on 
shore at the nearest port in Denmark. From that place 
Hamlet wrote to the king, acquainting him with the 
strange chance which had brought him back to his 
own country, and saying that on the next day he 
should present himself before his majesty. When he 
got home, a sad spectacle offered itself the first thing 
to his eyes. 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 303 

This was the funeral of the young and beautiful 
Ophelia, his once dear mistress. The wits of this 
young lady had begun to turn ever since her poor 
father's death. That he should die a violent death, 
and by the hands of the prince whom she loved, so 
affected this tender young maid, that in a little time 
she grew perfectly distracted, and would go about 
giving flowers away to the ladies of the court, and 
saying that they were for her father's burial, singing 
songs about love and about death, and sometimes such 
as had no meaning at all, as if she had no memory of 
what happened to her. There was a willow which 
grew slanting over a brook, and reflected its leaves in 
the stream. To this brook she came one day when 
she was unwatched, with garlands she had been making, 
mixed up of daisies and nettles, flowers and weeds 
together, and clambering up to hang her garland upon 
the boughs of the willow, a bough broke, and pre- 
cipitated this* fair young maid, garland, and all that 
she had gathered, into the water, where her clothes 
bore her up for a while, during which she chanted 
scraps of old tunes, like one insensible to her own 
distress, or as if she were a creature natural to that 
element: but long it was not before her garments, 
heavy with the wet, pulled her in from her melodious 
singing to a muddy and miserable death. It was the 
funeral of this fair maid which her brother Laertes was 
celebrating, the king and queen and whole court being 
present, when Hamlet arrived. He knew not what all 
this show imported, but stood on one side, not inclining 
to interrupt the ceremony. He saw the flowers strewed 
upon her grave, as the custom was in maiden burials, 
which the queen herself threw in; and as she threw 



304 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

them she said, "Sweets to the sweet! I thought to 
have decked thy bride-bed, sweet maid, not to have 
strewed thy grave. Thou shouldst have been my 
Hamlet's wife." And he heard her brother wish that 
violets might spring from her grave: and he saw him 
leap into the grave all frantic with grief, and bid the 
attendants pile mountains of earth upon him, that he 
might be buried with her. And Hamlet's love for this 
fair maid came back to him, and he could not bear 
that a brother should show so much transport of grief, 
for he thought that he loved Ophelia better than forty 
thousand brothers. Then discovering himself, he leaped 
into the grave where Laertes was, all as frantic or more 
frantic than he, and Laertes knowing him to. be Hamlet, 
who had been the cause of his father's and his sister's 
death, grappled him by the throat as an enemy, till 
the attendants parted them: and Hamlet, after the 
funeral, excused his hasty act in throwing himself into 
the grave as if to brave Laertes; but he said he could 
not bear that any one should seem to outgo him in 
grief for the death of the fair Ophelia. And for the 
time these two noble youths seemed reconciled. 

But out of the grief and anger of Laertes for the 
death of his father and Ophelia, the king, Hamlet's 
wicked uncle, contrived destruction for Hamlet. He 
set on Laertes, under cover of peace and reconciliation, 
to challenge Hamlet to a friendly trial of skill at 
fencing, which Hamlet accepting, a day was appointed 
to try the match. At this match all the court was 
present, and Laertes, by direction of the king, pre- 
pared a poisoned weapon. Upon this match great 
wagers were laid by the courtiers, as both Hamlet and 
Laertes were known to excel at this sword play; and 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 305 

Hamlet taking up the foils chose one, not at all 
suspecting the treachery of Laertes, or being careful 
to examine Laertes 1 weapon, who, instead of a foil or 
blunted sword, which the laws of fencing require, made 
use of one with a point, and poisoned. At first Laertes 
did but play with Hamlet, and suffered him to gain 
some advantages, which the dissembling king magnified 
and extolled beyond measure, drinking to Hamlet's 
success, and wagering rich bets upon the issue: but 
after a few passes, Laertes growing warm made a 
deadly thrust at Hamlet with his poisoned weapon, 
and gave him a mortal blow. Hamlet incensed, but 
not knowing the whole of the treachery, in the scuffle 
exchanged his own innocent weapon for Laertes' deadly 
one, and with a thrust of Laertes' own sword repaid 
Laertes home, who was thus justly caught in his own 
treachery. In this instant the queen shrieked out that 
she was poisoned. She had inadvertently drunk out 
of a bowl which the king had prepared for Hamlet, in 
case that being warm in fencing, he should call for 
drink: into this the treacherous king had infused a 
deadly poison, to make sure of Hamlet, if Laertes had 
failed. He had forgotten to warn the queen of the 
bowl, which she drank of, and immediately died, ex- 
claiming with her last breath that she was poisoned. 
Hamlet, suspecting some treachery, ordered the doors 
to be shut, while he sought it out. Laertes told him 
to seek no further, for he was the traitor j and feeling 
his life go away with the wound which Hamlet had 
given him, he made confession of the treachery he had 
used, and how he had fallen a victim to it: and he 
told Hamlet of the envenomed point, and said that 
Hamlet had not half an hour to live, for no medicine 

Tales from Shakspeare. *v 



306 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

could cure him; and begging forgiveness of Hamlet, 
he died, with his last words accusing the king of being 
the contriver of the mischief. When Hamlet saw his 
end draw near, there being yet some venom left upon 
the sword, he suddenly turned upon his false uncle, 
and thrust the point of it to his heart, fulfilling the 
promise which he had made to his father's spirit, whose 
injunction was now accomplished, and his foul murder 
revenged upon the murderer. Then Hamlet, feeling 
his breath fail and life departing, turned to his dear 
friend Horatio, who had been spectator of this fatal 
tragedy; and with his dying breath requested him that 
he would live to tell his story to the world (for Horatio 
had made a motion as if he would slay himself to ac- 
company the prince in death), and Horatio promised 
that he would make a true report, as one that was 
privy to all the circumstances. And, thus satisfied, the 
noble heart of Hamlet cracked; and Horatio and the 
bystanders with many tears commended the spirit of 
this sweet prince to the guardianship of angels. For 
Hamlet was a loving and a gentle prince, and greatly 
beloved for his many noble and princelike qualities; 
and if he had lived, would no doubt have proved a 
most royal and complete king to Denmark. 



OTHELLO. 307 



OTHELLO. 



Brabantio , the rich senator of Venice, had a fair 
daughter, the gentle Desdemona. She was sought to 
by divers suitors, both on account of her many virtuous 
qualities, and for her rich expectations. But among 
the suitors of her own clime and complexion, she saw 
none whom she could affect: for this noble lady, who 
regarded the mind more than the features of men, with 
a singularity rather to be admired than imitated, had 
chosen for the object of her affections, a Moor, a black, 
whom her father loved, and often invited to his 
house. 

Neither is Desdemona to be altogether condemned 
for the unsuitableness of the person whom she selected 
for her lover. Bating that Othello was black, the noble 
Moor wanted nothing which might recommend him to 
the affections of the greatest lady. He was a soldier, 
and a brave one; and by his conduct in bloody wars 
against the Turks, had risen to the rank of general in 
the Venetian service, and was esteemed and trusted by 
the state. 

He had been a traveller, andDesdemona (as is the man- 
ner of ladies) loved to hear him tell the story of his adven- 
tures, which he would run through from his earliest recol- 
lection; the battles, sieges, and encounters, which he had 

20* 



308 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

passed through; the perils he had been exposed to by 
land and by water; his hair-breadth escapes, when he 
had entered a breach, or marched up to the mouth of 
a cannon; and how he had been taken prisoner by the 
insolent enemy, and sold to slavery; how he demeaned 
himself in that state, and how he escaped: all these 
accounts, added to the narration of the .strange things 
he had seen in foreign countries, the vast wilderness 
and romantic caverns, the quarries, the rocks and 
mountains, whose heads are in the clouds; of the 
savage nations, the cannibals who are man-eaters, and 
a race of people in Africa whose heads do grow 
beneath their shoulders: these travellers' stories would 
so enchain the attention of Desdemona, that if she 
were called off at any time by household affairs, she 
would despatch with all haste that business, and re- 
turn, and with a greedy ear devour Othello's discourse. 
And once he took advantage of a pliant hour, and 
drew from her a prayer, that he would tell her the 
whole story of his life at large, of which she had heard 
so much, but only by parts: to which he consented, 
and beguiled her of many a tear, when he spoke 
of some distressful stroke which his youth had suf- 
fered. 

His story being done, she gave him for his pains 
a world of sighs: she swore a pretty oath, that it was 
all passing strange, and pitiful, wondrous pitiful: she 
wished (she said), she had not heard it, yet she 
wished that heaven had made her such a man; and 
then she thanked him, and told him, if he had a friend 
who loved her, he had only to teach him how to tell 
his story, and that would woo her. Upon this hint 
delivered not with more frankness than modesty, ac- 



OTHELLO. 309 

companied with certain bewitching prettiness, and 
blushes, which Othello could not but understand, he 
spoke more openly of his love, and in this golden op- 
portunity gained the consent of the generous lady Des- 
demona privately to marry him. 

Neither Othello's colour nor his fortune were such, 
that it could be hoped Brabantio would accept him for 
a son-in-law. He had left his daughter free; but he 
did expect that, as the manner of noble Venetian ladies 
was, she would choose ere long a husband of senatorial 
rank or expectations; but in this he was deceived; 
Desdemona loved the Moor, though he was black, and 
devoted her heart and fortunes to his valiant parts and 
qualities: so was her heart subdued to an implicit de- 
votion to the man she had selected for a husband, that 
his very colour, which to all but this discerning lady 
would have proved an insurmountable objection, was 
by her esteemed above all the white skins and clear 
complexions of the young Venetian nobility, her 
suitors. 

Their marriage, which, though privately carried, 
could not long be kept a secret, came to the ears of 
the old man, Brabantio, who appeared in a solemn 
council of the senate, as an accuser of the Moor 
Othello, who by spells and witchcraft (he maintained) 
had seduced the affections of the fair Desdemona to 
marry him, without the consent of her father, and 
against the obligations of hospitality. 

At this juncture of time it happened that the state 
of Venice had immediate need of the services of 
Othello, news having arrived that the Turks with 
mighty preparation had fitted out a fleet, which was 
bending its course to the island of Cyprus, with intent 



310 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

to regain that strong post from the Venetians, who 
then held it; in this emergency the state turned its 
eyes upon Othello, who alone was deemed adequate to 
conduct the defence of Cyprus against the Turks. So 
that Othello, now summoned before the senate, stood 
in their presence at once as a candidate for a great 
state employment, and as a culprit, charged with 
offences which by the laws of Venice were made 
capital. 

The age and senatorial character of old Brabantio, 
commanded a most patient hearing from that grave 
assembly, but the incensed father conducted his ac- 
cusation with so much intemperance, producing likeli- 
hoods and allegations for proofs, that, when Othello 
was called upon for his defence, he had only to relate 
a plain tale of the course of his love; which he did 
with such an artless eloquence, recounting the whole 
story of his wooing, as we have related it above, and 
delivered his speech with so noble a plainness, (the 
evidence of truth), that the duke, who sat as chief 
judge, could not help confessing, that a tale so told 
would have won his daughter too: and the spells and 
conjurations which Othello had used in his courtship, 
plainly appeared to have been no more than the honest 
arts of men in love; and the only witchcraft which 
he had used, the faculty of telling a soft tale to win a 
lady's ear. 

This statement of Othello was confirmed by the 
testimony of the lady Desdemona herself, who ap- 
peared in court, and professing a duty to her father 
for life and education, challenged leave of him to 
profess a yet higher duty to her lord and husband, 



OTHELLO. 311 

even so much as her mother had shown in preferring 
him (Brabantio) above her father. 

The old senator, unable to maintain his plea, called 
the Moor to him with many expressions of sorrow, and, 
as an act of necessity, bestowed upon him his daughter, 
whom, if he had been free to withhold her (he told 
him), he would with all his heart have kept from him; 
adding, that he was glad at soul that he had no other 
child, for this behaviour of Desdemona would have 
taught him to be a tyrant, and hang clogs on them for 
her desertion. 

This difficulty being got over, Othello, to whom 
custom had rendered the hardships of a military life 
as natural as food and rest are to other men, readily 
undertook the management of the wars in Cyprus: 
and Desdemona, preferring the honour of her lord 
(though with danger) before the indulgence of those 
idle delights in which new-married people usually waste 
their time, cheerfully consented to his going. 

No sooner were Othello and his lady landed in 
Cyprus, than news arrived, that a desperate tempest 
had dispersed the Turkish fleet, and thus the island 
was secure from any immediate apprehension of an 
attack. But the war, which Othello was to suffer, 
was now beginning; and the enemies, which malice 
stirred up against his innocent lady, proved in their 
nature more deadly than strangers or infidels. 

Among all the general's friends no one possessed 
the confidence of Othello more entirely than Cassio. 
Michael Cassio was a young soldier, a Florentine, gay, 
amorous, and of pleasing address, favourite qualities 
with women; he was handsome, and eloquent, and ex- 
actly such a person as might alarm the jealousy of a 



312 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

man advanced in years (as Othello in some measure 
was), who had married a young and beautiful wife; 
but Othello was as free from jealousy as he was noble,' 
and as incapable of suspecting as of doing a base 
action. He had employed this Cassio in his love affair 
with Desdemona, and Cassio had been a sort of go- 
between in his suit: for Othello, fearing that himself 
had not those soft parts of conversation which please 
ladies, and finding these qualities in his friend, would 
often depute Cassio to go (as he phrased it) a courting 
for him: such innocent simplicity being rather an 
honour than a blemish to the character of the valiant 
Moor. So that no wonder, if next to Othello himself (but 
at far distance, as beseems a virtuous wife) the gentle 
Desdemona loved and trusted Cassio. Nor had the 
marriage of this couple made any difference in their 
behaviour to Michael Cassio. He frequented their 
house, and his free and rattling talk was no unpleasing 
variety to Othello, who was himself of a more serious 
temper: for such tempers are observed often to delight 
in their contraries, as a relief from the oppressive ex- 
cess of their own: and Desdemona and Cassio would 
talk and laugh together, as in the days when he went 
a courting for his friend. 

Othello had lately promoted Cassio to be the lieu- 
tenant, a place of trust, and nearest to the general's 
person. This promotion gave great offence to Iago, 
an older officer, who thought he had a better claim 
than Cassio, and would often ridicule Cassio as a fel- 
low fit only for the company of ladies, and one that 
knew no more of the art of war or how to set an army 
in array for battle, than a girl. Iago hated Cassio, 
and he hated Othello, as well for favouring Cassio, as 



OTIIELLO. 313 

as for an unjust suspicion, which he had lightly taken 
up against Othello, that the Moor was too fond of 
Iago's wife Emilia. From these imaginary provoca- 
tions, the plotting mind of Iago conceived a horrid 
scheme of revenge, which should involve both Cassio, 
the Moor, and Desdemona, in one common ruin. 

Iago was artful, and had studied human nature 
deeply, and he knew that of all the torments which 
afflict the mind of man (and far beyond bodily tor- 
ture), the pains of jealousy were the most intolerable, 
and had the sorest sting. If he could succeed in 
making Othello jealous of Cassio, he thought it would 
be an exquisite plot of revenge, and might end in the 
death of Cassio or Othello, or both; he cared not. 

The arrival of the general and his lady in Cyprus, 
meeting with the news of the dispersion of the enemy's 
fleet, made a sort of holiday in the island. Every- 
body gave themselves up to feasting and making merry. 
Wine flowed in abundance, and cups went round to 
the health of the black Othello, and his lady the fair 
Desdemona. 

Cassio had the direction of the guard that night, 
with a charge from Othello to keep the soldiers from 
excess in drinking, that no brawl might arise, to fright 
the inhabitants, or disgust them with the new-landed 
forces. That night Iago began his deep-laid plans of 
mischief; under colour of loyalty and love to the ge- 
neral, he enticed Cassio to make rather too free with 
the bottle (a great fault in an offieer upon guard). 
Cassio for a time resisted, but he could not long hold 
out against the honest freedom which Iago knew how 
to put on, but kept swallowing glass after glass (as 
Iago still plied him with drink and encouraging songs), 



314 TALES PROM SHAKSPEAEE. 

and Cassio's tongue ran over in praise of the lady 
Desdemona, whom he again and again toasted, affirm- 
ing that she was a most exquisite lady: until at last 
the enemy which he put into his mouth stole away his 
brains; and upon some provocation given him by a 
fellow whom lago had set on, swords were drawn, and 
Montano, a worthy officer, who interfered to appease 
the dispute, was wounded in the scuffle. The riot now 
began to be general, and lago, who had set on foot 
the mischief, was foremost in spreading the alarm, 
causing the castle-bell to be rung (as if some dangerous 
mutiny instead of a slight drunken quarrel had arisen): 
the alarm-bell ringing awakened Othello, who, dressing 
in a hurry, and coming to the scene of action, questioned 
Gassio of the cause. Cassio was now come to himself, 
the effect of the wine having a little gone off, but was 
too much ashamed to reply; and lago, pretending a 
great reluctance to accuse Cassio, but as it were forced 
into it by Othello, who insisted to know the truth, 
gave an account of the whole matter (leaving out his 
own share in it, which Cassio was too far gone to 
remember) in such a manner, as while he seemed to 
make Cassio's offence less, did indeed make it appear 
greater than it was. The result was, that Othello, 
who was a strict observer of discipline, was com- 
pelled to take away Cassio's place of lieutenant from 
him. 

Thus did Iago's first artifice succeed completely; 
he had now undermined his hated rival, and thrust 
him out of his place: but a further use was hereafter 
to be made of the adventure of this disastrous night. 

Cassio, whom this misfortune had entirely sobered, 
now lamented to his seeming friend lago that he should 



OTHELLO. 315 

have been such a fool as to transform himself into a 
beast. He was undone, for how could he ask the 
general for his place again? he would tell him he was 
a drunkard. He despised himself. Iago, affecting to 
make light of it, said, that be, or any man living, 
might be drunk upon occasion; it remained now to 
make the best of a bad bargain; the general's wife was 
now the general, and could do anything with Othello; 
that he were best to apply to the lady Desdemona to 
mediate for him with her lord; that she was of a 
frank, obliging disposition, and would readily under- 
take a good office of this sort, and set Cassio right 
again in the general's favour; and then this crack in 
their love would be made stronger than ever. A good 
advice of Iago, if it had not been given for wicked 
purposes, which will after appear. 

Cassio did as Iago advised him, and made appli- 
cation to the lady Desdemona, who was easy to be 
won over in any honest suit; and she promised Cassio 
that she should be his solicitor with her lord, and 
rather die than give up his cause. This she imme- 
diately set about in so earnest and pretty a manner, 
that Othello, who was mortally offended with Cassio, 
could not put her off. When he pleaded delay, and 
that it was too soon to pardon such an offender, she 
would not be beat back, but insisted that it should be 
the next night, or the morning after, or the next morn- 
ing to that at furthest. Then she showed how penitent 
and humbled poor Cassio was, and that his offence did 
not deserve so sharp a check. And when Othello still 
hung back, "What! my lord," said she, "that I should 
have so much to do to plead for Cassio, Michael Cassio, 
that came a courting for you, and oftentimes, when 1 



316 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

have spoken in dispraise of you , has taken your part 
I count this but a little thing to ask of you. When 
I mean to try your love indeed, I shall ask a weighty 
matter." Othello could deny nothing to such a pleader, 
and only requesting that Desdemona would leave the 
time to him, promised to receive Michael Cassio again 
into favour. 

It happened that Othello and Iago had entered 
into the room where Desdemona was, just as Cassio, 
who had been imploring her intercession, was depart- 
ing at the opposite door; and Iago, who was full of 
art, said in a low voice, as if to himself, "I like not 
that." Othello took no great notice of what he said; 
indeed the conference which immediately took place 
with his lady put it out of his head; but he remem- 
bered it afterwards. For when Desdemona was gone, 
Iago, as if for mere satisfaction of his thought, ques- 
tioned Othello whether Michael Cassio, when Othello 
was courting his lady, knew of his love. To this the 
general answering in the affirmative, and adding, that 
he had gone between them very often during the court- 
ship, Iago knitted his brow, as if he had got fresh 
light on some terrible matter, and cried, "Indeed!" 
This brought into Othello's mind, the words which 
Iago had let fall upon entering the room, and seeing 
Cassio with Desdemona; and he began to think there 
was some meaning in all this: for he deemed Iago to 
be a just man, and full of love and honesty, and what 
in a false knave would be tricks, in him seemed to be 
the natural workings of an honest mind, big with some- 
thing too great for utterance: and Othello prayed Iago 
to speak what he knew, and to give his worst thoughts 
words. "And what," said Iago, "if some thoughts 



OXHBLLO. 317 

very vile should have intruded into my breast, as 
where is the palace into which foul things do not 
enter?" Then Iago went on to say, what a pity it 
were, if any trouble should arise to Othello out of his 
imperfect observations; that it would not be for Othello's 
peace to know his thoughts-, that people's good names 
were not to be taken away for slight suspicions-, and 
when Othello's curiosity was raised almost to distrac- 
tion with these hints and scattered words, Iago, as if 
in earnest care for Othello's peace of mind, besought 
him to beware of jealousy: with such art did this vil- 
lain raise suspicions in the unguarded Othello, by the 
very caution which he pretended to give him against 
suspicion. "I know," said Othello, "that my wife is 
fair, loves company and feasting, is free of speech, 
sings, plays, and dances well: but where virtue is, 
these qualities are virtuous. I must have proof before 
I think her dishonest." Then Iago, as if glad that 
Othello was* slow to believe ill of his lady, frankly de- 
clared that he had no proof, but begged Othello to 
observe her behaviour well, when Cassio was by; not 
to be jealous nor too secure neither, for that he (Iago) 
knew the dispositions of the Italian ladies, his country- 
women, better than Othello could do; and that in 
Venice the wives let heaven see many pranks they 
dared not show their husbands. Then he artfully in- 
sinuated, that Desdemona deceived her father in mar- 
rying with Othello, and carried it so closely, that the 
poor old man thought that witchcraft had been used. 
Othello was much moved with this argument, which 
brought the matter home to him, for if she had de- 
ceived her father, why might she not deceive her hus- 
band? 



318 TALES FROM SHAKSPEAEE. 

Iago begged pardon for having moved him; but 
Othello, assuming an indifference, while he was really- 
shaken with inward grief at Iago's words, begged him 
to go on, which Iago did with many apologies, as if 
unwilling to produce anything against Cassio, whom 
he called his friend: he then came strongly to the 
point, and reminded Othello how Desdemona had re- 
fused many suitable matches of her own clime and 
complexion, and had married him, a Moor, which 
showed unnatural in her, and proved her to have a 
headstrong will: and when her better judgment returned, 
how probable it was she should fall upon comparing 
Othello with the fine forms and clear white complexions 
of the young Italians her countrymen. He concluded 
with advising Othello to put off his reconcilement 
with Cassio a little longer, and in the meanwhile to 
note with what earnestness Desdemona should intercede 
in his behalf; for that much would be seen in that. 
So mischievously did this artful villain lay his plots 
to turn the gentle qualities of this innocent lady into 
her destruction, and make a net for her out of her 
own goodness to entrap her: first setting Cassio on to 
entreat her mediation, and then out of that very me- 
diation contriving stratagems for her ruin. 

The conference ended with Iago's begging Othello 
to account his wife innocent, until he had more de- 
cisive proof; and Othello promised to be patient: but 
from that moment the deceived Othello never tasted 
content of mind. Poppy, nor the juice of mandragora, 
nor all the sleeping potions in the world, could ever 
again restore to him that sweet rest, which he had 
enjoyed but yesterday. His occupation sickened upon 
him. He no longer took delight in arms. His heart, 



OTHEIJiO. 319 

that used to be roused at the sight of troops , and 
banners, and battle-array, and would stir and leap at 
the sound of a drum, or a trumpet, or a neighing war- 
horse, seemed to have lost all that pride and ambition, 
which are a soldier's virtue; and his military ardour 
and all his old joys forsook him. Sometimes he thought 
his wife honest, and at times he thought her not so; 
sometimes he thought Iago just, and at times he thought 
him not so; then he would wish that he had never 
known of it; he was not the worse for her loving 
Cassio, so long as he knew it not: torn to pieces with 
these distracting thoughts, he once laid hold on Iago's 
throat, and demanded proof of Desdemona's guilt, or 
threatened instant death for his having belied her. 
Iago, feigning indignation that his honesty should be 
taken for a vice, asked Othello, if he had not some- 
times seen a handkerchief spotted with strawberries in 
his wife's hand. Othello answered, that he had given 
her such a one, and that it was his first gift. "That 
same handkerchief," said Iago, "did I see Michael 
Cassio this day wipe his face with." "If it be as you 
say," said Othello, "I will not rest till a wide revenge 
swallow them up: and first, for a token of your fidel- 
ity, I expect that Cassio shall he put to death within 
three days; and for that fair devil (meaning his lady), 
I will withdraw and devise some swift means of death 
for her." 

Trifles, light as air, are to the jealous proofs as 
strong as holy writ. A Landkerchief of his wife's seen 
in Cassio's hand, was motive enough to the deluded 
Othello to pass sentence of death upon them both, 
without once inquiring how Cassio came by it. Des- 
demona had never given such a present to Cassio, nor 



320 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

would this constant lady have wronged her lord with 
doing so naughty a thing, as giving his presents to 
another man; both Cassio and Desdemona were inno- 
cent of any offence against Othello: hut the wicked 
Iago, whose spirits never slept in contrivance of villany, 
had made his wife (a good, but a weak woman) steal 
this handkerchief from Desdemona, under pretence of 
getting the work copied, but in reality to drop it in 
Cassio's way, where he might find it, and give a 
handle to Iago's suggestion that it was Desdemona's 
present. 

Othello, soon after meeting his wife, pretended 
that he had a headache (as he might indeed with 
truth), and desired her to lend him her handkerchief 
to hold to his temples. She did so. "Not this," said 
Othello, "but that handkerchief I gave you." Desde- 
mona had it not about her (for indeed it was stolen 
as we have related). "How!" said Othello, "this is a 
fault indeed. That handkerchief an Egyptian woman 
gave to my mother; the woman was a witch, and could 
read people's thoughts: she told my mother, while she 
kept it, it would make her amiable, and my father 
would love her; but, if she lost it, or gave it away, 
my father's fancy would turn, and he would loathe her 
as much as he had loved her. She dying gave it me, 
and bade me, if I ever married, to give it to my wife. 
I did so; take heed of it. Make it a darling as 
precious as your eye." "Is it possible?" said the 
frighted lady. "'Tis true;" continued Othello; "it is 
a magical handkerchief; a sibyl that had lived in the 
world two hundred years, in a fit of prophetic fury 
worked it; the silkworms that furnished the silk were 
hallowed, and it was dyed in a mummy of maidens' 



OTHELLO. 321 

hearts conserved." Desdemona, hearing the wondrous 
virtues of the handkerchief, was ready to die with fear, 
for she plainly perceived she had lost it, and with it, 
she feared, the affections of her husband. Then 
Othello started, and looked as if he were going to do 
some rash thing, and still he demanded the handker- 
chief, which when she could not produce, she tried to 
divert her husband from too serious thoughts, and 
cheerfully told him she saw all his talk about the 
handkerchief was only to put her off from her suit 
about Michael Cassio, whom she went on to praise (as 
Iago had foretold), till Othello in perfect distraction 
burst out of the room, and then Desdemona, though 
unwillingly, began to suspect that her lord was 
jealous. 

What cause she could have ministered to him she 
knew not, and then she accused herself for accusing 
the noble Othello, and thought to be sure that some 
untoward news from Venice, or some state troubles, 
had puddled his spirits, and made his temper not so 
sweet as formerly. And she said, "Men are not gods, 
and we must not look for that observance from them 
when they are married, which they show us on the 
bridal day." And she beshrewed herself for so un- 
kindly judging of his unkindness. 

Again Othello and Desdemona met, and he ac- 
cused her more plainly of being unfaithful, and of 
loving another man, but he did not name whom: and 
Othello wept, and Desdemona said, "Alas! the heavy 
day! why do you weep?" And Othello told her, he 
could have borne all sorts of evils with fortitude — 
poverty, and disease, and disgrace; but her infidelity 

Tales from Shakspeare. 21 



6*2 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

had broken his heart: and he called her a weed, that 
looked so fair, and smelled so sweet, that the sense 
ached at it; and wished she had never been born. 
And when he had left her, this innocent lady was so 
stupi£ed with wonder at her lord's nntrue suspicion of 
her, that a weight-like sleep came over her, and she 
only desired her attendant to make her bed, and to 
lay her wedding-sheets npon it, saying, that when 
people teach their babes, they do it by gentle means 
and easy tasks, and Othello might have chid her so; 
for in good faith she was but a child when she was 
chidden. And this was all the complaint which this 
gentle lady made. 

Desdemona being retired to bed expecting her lord 
would follow her, soon fell into a slumber the effect of 
her troubled spirits, when Othello entered the chamber, 
full of the black purpose which he had meditated of 
putting his lady to death. But when he saw her 
asleep, he thought he would not shed her blood, nor 
scar that white skin of hers, more white than alabaster. 
But he was resolved she should die; else (as he said) 
she would live to betray more men, as she had done 
him. Then he kissed her for the last time (as he 
said) and that kiss was so sweet, that he must needs 
kiss her again: and he wept, but he said they were 
cruel tears. 

Desdemona was awakened with his kisses, and she 
looked upon Othello, and she saw him gnaw his under 
lip, and roll his eyes, and she knew he was always 
fatal when he looked so: and he bade her prepare for 
death, and to say her prayers, for he would not kill 
her soul. And this innocent wife, as she lay at his 



OTHELLO. 323 

mercy, begged for compassion, and to know her fault, 
and then he named Cassio, and the handkerchief which 
(he said) she had given him; and as the guiltless lady 
was proceeding to clear herself, he suddenly would 
hear no more, but covering her up in the bed-clothes, 
stifled her till she died. 

In this instant of time was brought into the house 
Cassio, wounded and bleeding, whom Iago had set 
one of his creatures on to assassinate; but the fellow 
not succeeding in his attempt to kill Cassio (whom he 
wounded, but not mortally), and being himself killed 
by Iago to prevent discovery, in his pockets were 
found certain letters, which made the guilt of Iago, 
and the innocence of Cassio, clear beyond all doubt; 
and Cassio now came to beg pardon of Othello, and 
to ask wherein he had offended him, that he had em- 
ployed Iago to murder him. 

This discovery was as a thunderstroke to Othello, 
who now plainly saw that he was no better than a 
murderer, and that his wife (poor innocent lady) had 
been ever faithful to him; the extreme anguish of 
which discovery making life insupportable, he fell 
upon his sword, and throwing himself upon the body 
of his dear injured lady, expired. 

These rash acts raised much passion of horror and 
amazement in the bystanders, for Othello had borne a 
fair reputation, and till he was wrought upon by the 
arts of a villain, which his own noble nature never 
gave him leave to suspect, he was a loving and a 
doting husband. He had loved not wisely, but too 
well; and hi3 manly eyes (when he learned his mis- 
take), though not used to weep on every small occa- 

21* 



324 TALES FROM SHAK8PEARB. 

sion, dropped tears as fast as the Arabian trees their 
gum. And when he was dead all his former merits 
and his valiant acts were remembered. Nothing now 
remained for his successor, but to put the utmost cen- 
sure of the law in force against Iago, who was executed 
with strict tortures; and to send word to the state 
of Venice of the lamentable death of their renowned 
general. 



PERICLES, PRINCE OP TYRE. 325 



PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE. 



Pericles, prince of Tyre, became a voluntary 
exile from his dominions, to avert the dreadful calam- 
ities which Antiochus, the wicked emperor of Greece, 
threatened to bring upon his subjects and city of Tyre, 
in revenge for a discovery which the prince had made 
of a shocking deed which the emperor had done in 
secret; as commonly it proves dangerous to pry into 
the hidden crimes of great ones. Leaving the govern- 
ment of his people in the hands of his able and honest 
minister, Hellicanus, Pericles set sail from Tyre, think- 
ing to absent himself till the wrath of Antiochus, who 
was mighty, should be appeased. 

The first place which the prince directed his course 
to was Tharsus , and hearing that the city of Tharsus 
was at that time suffering under a severe famine, he 
took with him store of provisions for its relief. On 
his arrival he found the city reduced to the utmost 
distress; and, he coming like a messenger from heaven 
with this unhoped-for succour, Cleon, the governor of 
Tharsus, welcomed him with boundless thanks. Pericles 
had not been here many days, before letters came 
from his faithful minister, warning him that it was 
not safe for him to stay at Tharsus, for Antiochus 
knew of his abode, and by secret emissaries dispatched 
for that purpose sought his life. Upon receipt of 
these letters Pericles put out to sea again, amidst the 



326 TALES FROM SRAKSPEARE. 

blessings and prayers of a whole people who had been 
fed by his bounty. 

He had not sailed far, when his ship was over- 
taken by a dreadful storm, and every man on board 
perished except Pericles, who was cast by the sea- 
waves naked on an unknown shore, where he had not 
wandered long before he met with some poor fisher- 
men, who invited him to their homes, giving him 
clothes and provisions. The fishermen told Pericles 
the name of their country was Pentapolis, and that 
their king was Symonides, commonly called the good 
Symonides, because of his peaceable reign and good 
government. From them he also learned that king 
Symonides had a fair young daughter, and that the 
following day was her birth-day, when a grand tourna- 
ment was to be held at court, many princes and knights 
being come from all parts to try their skill in arms 
for the love of Thaisa, this fair princess. While the 
prince was listening to this account, and secretly 
lamenting the loss of his good armour, which disabled 
him from making one among these valiant knights, 
another fisherman brought in a complete suit of armour 
that he had taken out of the sea with his fishing-net, 
which proved to be the very armour he had lost. When 
Pericles beheld his own armour, he said, "Thanks, 
Fortune; after all my crosses you give me somewhat 
to repair myself. This armour was bequeathed to me 
by my dead father, for whose dear sake I have so 
loved it, that whithersoever I went, I still have kept 
it by me, and the rough sea that parted it from me, 
having now become calm, hath given it back again, 
for which I thank it, for, since I have my father's gift 
again, I think my shipwreck no misfortune." 



PERICLES, PRINCE OP TYRE. 327 

The next day Pericles, clad in his brave father's 
armour, repaired to the royal court of Symonides, where 
he performed wonders at the tournament, vanquishing 
with ease all the brave knights and valiant princes 
who contended with him in arms for the honour of 
Thaisa's love. When brave warriors contended at 
court-tournaments for the love of kings' daughters, if 
one proved sole victor over all the rest, it was usual 
for the great lady for whose sake these deeds of valour 
were undertaken, to bestow all her respect upon the 
conqueror, and Thaisa did not depart from this custom, 
for she presently dismissed all the princes and knights 
whom Pericles had vanquished, and distinguished him 
by her especial favour and regard, crowning him with 
the wreath of victory, as king of that day's happi- 
ness; and Pericles became a most passionate lover of 
this beauteous princess from the first moment he be- 
held her. 

The good Symonides so well approved of the valour 
and noble qualities of Pericles, who was indeed a most 
accomplished gentleman, and well learned in all ex- 
cellent arts, that though he knew not the rank of this 
royal stranger (for Pericles for fear of Antiochus gave 
out that he was a private gentleman of Tyre), yet did 
not Symonides disdain to accept of the valiant un- 
known for a son-in-law, when he perceived his daugh- 
ter's affections were firmly fixed upon him. 

Pericles had not been many months married to 
Thaisa, before he received intelligence that his enemy 
Antiochus was dead; and that his subjects of Tyre, 
impatient of his long absence, threatened to revolt, 
and talked of placing Hellicanus upon his vacant 
throne. This news came from Hellicanus himself, who, 



328 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

being a loyal subject to his royal master, would not 
accept of the high dignity offered him, but sent to let 
Pericles know their intentions, that he might return 
home and resume his lawful right. It was matter of 
great surprise and joy to Symonides, to find that his 
son-in-law (the obscure knight) was the renowned 
prince of Tyre; yet. again he regretted that he was 
not the private gentleman he supposed him to be, 
seeing that he must now part both with his admired 
son-in-law, and his beloved daughter, whom he feared 
to trust to the perils of the sea, because Thaisa was 
with child; and Pericles himself wished her to remain 
with her father till after her confinement, but the poor 
lady so earnestly desired to go with her husband, that 
at last they consented, hoping she would reach Tyre 
before she was brought to bed. 

The sea was no friendly element to unhappy Peri- 
cles, for long before they reached Tyre another dreadful 
tempest arose, which so terrified Thaisa that she was 
taken ill, and in a short space of time her nurse Ly- 
chorida came to Pericles with a little child in her arms, 
to tell the prince the sad tidings that his wife died the 
moment her little babe was born. She held the babe 
towards its father, saying, "Here is a thing too young 
for such a place. This is the child of your dead queen." 
No tongue can tell the dreadful sufferings of Pericles 
when he heard his wife was dead. As soon as he could 
speak, he said, "0 you gods, why do you make us 
love your goodly gifts, and then snatch those gifts 
away?" "Patience, good sir," said Lychorida, "here 
is all that is left alive of our dead queen, a little 
daughter, and for your child's sake be more manly. 
Patience, good sir, even for the sake of this precious 



PERICIdBS, PRINCE OP TYRE. 329 

charge." Pericles took the new-born infant in his arms, 
and he said to the little babe, "Now may your life be 
mild, for a more blusterous birth had never babe! May 
your condition be mild and gentle, for you have had 
the rudest welcome that ever prince's child did meet 
with! May that which follows be happy, for you have 
had as chiding a nativity as fire, air, water, earth, and 
heaven, could make to herald you from the womb! 
Even at the first, your loss," meaning in the death of 
her mother, "is more than all the joys, which you 
shall find upon this earth to which you are come a 
new visitor, shall be able to recompense." 

The storm still continuing to rage furiously, and 
the sailors having a superstition that while a dead body 
remained in the ship the storm would never cease, they 
came to Pericles to demand that his queen should be 
thrown overboard; and they said, "What courage, sir? 
God save you!" "Courage enough," said the sorrowing 
prince: "I do not fear the storm; it has done to me its 
worst; yet for the love of this poor infant, this fresh 
new seafarer, I wish the storm was over." "Sir," said 
the sailors, "your queen must overboard. The sea 
works high, the wind is loud, and the storm will not 
abate till the ship be cleared of the dead." Though 
Pericles knew how weak and unfounded this supersti- 
tion was, yet he patiently submitted, saying, "As you 
think meet. Then she must overboard, most wretched 
queen 1" And now this unhappy prince went to take 
a last view of his dear wife, and as he looked on his 
Thaisa, he said, "A terrible childbed hast thou had, 
my dear; no light, no fire, the unfriendly elements 
forget thee utterly, nor have I time to bring thee 
hallowed to thy grave, but must cast thee scarcely 



330 TALES PROM SHAKSPEARE. 

coffined into the sea, where for a monument upon thy 
bones the humming waters must overwhelm thy corpse, 
lying with simple shells. Lychorida, bid Nestor 
bring me spices, ink, and paper, my casket and my 
jewels, and bid Nicandor bring me the satin coffin. 
Lay the babe upon the pillow, and go about this sud- 
denly, Lychorida, while I say a priestly farewell to my 
Thaisa." 

They brought Pericles a large chest, in which 
(wrapped in a satin shroud) he placed his queen, and 
sweet-smelling spices he strewed over her, and beside 
her he placed rich jewels, and a written paper, telling 
who she was, and praying if haply any one should find 
the chest which contained the body of his wife, they 
would give her burial: and then with his own hands 
he cast the chest into the sea. When the storm was 
over, Pericles ordered the sailors to make for Tharsus. 
"For," said Pericles, "the babe cannot hold out till we 
come to Tyre. At Tharsus I will leave it at careful 
nursing." 

After that tempestuous night when Thaisa was 
thrown into the sea, and while it was yet early morn- 
ing, as Cerimon, a worthy gentleman of Ephesus, and 
a most skilful physician, was standing by the sea-side, 
his servants brought to him a chest, which they said 
the sea-waves had thrown on the land. "I never saw," 
said one of them, "so huge a billow as cast it on our 
shore." Cerimon ordered the chest to be conveyed to 
his own house, and when it was opened he beheld with 
wonder the body of a young and lovely lady; and 
the sweet- smelling spices, and rich casket of jewels, 
made him conclude it was some great person who was 
thus strangely entombed: searching further, he dis- 



PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE. 331 

covered a paper, from which he learned that the corpse 
which lay as dead before him had been a queen, and 
wife to Pericles, prince of Tyre; and much admiring at 
the strangeness of that accident, and more pitying the 
husband who had lost this sweet lady, he said, "If you 
are living, Pericles, you have a heart that even cracks 
with woe." Then observing attentively Thaisa's face, 
he saw how fresh and unlike death her looks were, and 
he said, "They were too hasty that threw you into the 
sea:" for he did not believe her to be dead. He ordered 
a fire to be made, and proper cordials to be brought, 
and soft music to be played, which might help to calm 
her amazed spirits if she should revive; and he said to 
those who crowded round her, wondering at what they 
saw, "I pray you, gentlemen, give her air; this queen 
will live; she has not been entranced above five hours; 
and see, she begins to blow into life again; she is alive; 
behold, he? eyelids move; this fair creature will live 
to make us weep to hear her fate." Thaisa had never 
died, but after the birth of her little baby had fallen 
into a deep swoon, which made all that saw her con- 
clude her to be dead; and now by the care of this kind 
gentleman she once more revived to light and life; and 
opening her eyes, she said, "Where am I? Where is 
my lord? What world is this?" By gentle degrees 
Cerimon let her understand what had befallen her; and 
when he thought she was enough recovered to bear the 
sight, he showed her the paper written by her hus- 
band, and the jewels; and she looked on the paper, 
and said, "It is my lord's writing. That I was shipped 
at sea, I well remember, but whether there delivered 
of my babe, by the holy gods I cannot rightly say; 
but since my wedded lord I never shall see again, I 



332 TALES FROM SHAXSPEARE. 

will put on a vestal livery T and never more have joy." 
"Madam," said Cerimon, "if you purpose as you speak, 
the temple of Diana is not far distant from hence, there 
you may abide as a vestal. Moreover, if you please, 
a niece of mine shall there attend you." This proposal 
was accepted with thanks by Thaisa; and when she 
was perfectly recovered, Cerimon placed her in the 
temple of Diana, where she became a vestal or priestess 
of that goddess , and passed her days in sorrowing for 
her husband's supposed loss, and in the most devout 
exercises of those times. 

Pericles carried his young daughter (whom he 
named Marina, because she was born at sea) to Thar- 
sus, intending to leave her with Cleon, the governor 
of that city, and his wife Dionysia, thinking, for the 
good he had done to them at the time of their famine, 
they would be kind to his little motherless daughter. 
When Cleon saw prince Pericles, and heard of the 
great loss which had befallen him, he said, "0 your 
sweet queen, that it had pleased Heaven you could 
have brought her hither to have blessed my eyes with 
the sight of her!" Pericles replied, "We must obey 
the powers above us. Should I rage and roar as the 
sea does in which my Thaisa lies, yet the end must be 
as it is. My gentle babe, Marina here, I must charge 
your charity with her. I leave her the infant of your 
care, beseeching you to give her princely training." 
And then turning to Cleon's wife, Dionysia, he said, 
"Good madam, make me blessed in your care in 
bringing up my child:" and she answered, "I have a 
child myself who shall not be more dear to my respect 
than yours, my lord;" and Cleon made the like pro- 
mise, saying, "Your noble services, prince Pericles, in 



PERICLES, PRINCE OP TYRE. 333 

feeding my whole people with your corn (for which in 
their prayers they daily remember you) must in your 
child be thought on. If I should neglect your child, 
my whole people that were by you relieved would force 
me to my duty; but if to that I need a spur, the gods 
revenge it on me and mine to the end of generation." 
Pericles, being thus assured that his child would be 
carefully attended to, left her to the protection of Cleon, 
and his wife Dionysia, and with her he left the nurse 
Lychorida. When he went away, the little Marina 
knew not her loss, but Lychorida wept sadly at parting 
with her royal master. "0, no tears, Lychorida," said 
Pericles; "no tears; look to your little mistress, on 
whose grace you may depend hereafter." 

Pericles arrived in safety at Tyre, and was once 
more settled in the quiet possession of his throne, while 
his woeful queen, whom he thought dead, remained at 
Ephesus. Her little babe Marina, whom this hapless 
mother had never seen, was brought up by Cleon in a 
manner suitable to her high birth. He gave her the 
most careful education, so that by the time Marina 
attained the age of fourteen years, the most deeply- 
learned men were not more studied in the learning of 
those times than was Marina. She sung like one im- 
mortal, and danced as goddess-like, and with her needle 
she was so skilful that she seemed to compose nature's 
own shapes, in birds, fruits, or flowers, the natural 
roses being scarcely more like to each other than they 
were to Marina's silken flowers. But when she had 
gained from education all these graces, which made 
her the general wonder, Dionysia, the wife of Cleon, 
became her mortal enemy from jealousy, by reason that 
her own daughter, from the slowness of her mind, was 



334 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

not able to attain to that perfection wherein Marina 
excelled: and finding that all praise was bestowed on 
Marina, whilst her daughter, who was of the same age, 
and had been educated with the same care as Marina, 
though not with the same success, was in comparison 
disregarded, she formed a project to remove Marina 
out of the way, vainly imagining that her untoward 
daughter would be more respected when Marina was 
no more seen. To encompass this she employed a man 
to murder Marina, and she well timed her wicked de- 
sign, when Lychorida, the faithful nurse, had just died. 
Dionysia was discoursing with the man she had com- 
manded to commit this murder, when the young Marina 
was weeping over the dead Lychorida. Leoline, the 
man she employed to do this bad deed, though he was 
a very wicked man, could hardly be persuaded to un- 
dertake it, so had Marina won all hearts to love her. 
He said, "She is a goodly creature!" "The fitter then 
the gods should have her," replied her merciless enemy: 
"here she comes weeping for the death of her nurse 
Lychorida: are you resolved to obey me?" Leoline, 
fearing to disobey her, replied, "I am resolved." And 
so, in that one short sentence, was the matchless Ma- 
rina doomed to an untimely death. She now approached, 
with a basket of flowers in her hand, which she said, 
she would daily strew over the grave of good Lycho- 
rida. The purple violet and the marigold should as a 
carpet hang upon her grave, while summer days did 
last. "Alas, for me!" she said, "poor unhappy maid, 
born in a tempest, when my mother died. This world 
to me is like a lasting storm, hurrying me from my 
friends." "How now, Marina," said the dissembling 
Dionysia, "do you weep alone? How does it chance 



PERICLES, PRINCE OP TYRE. 335 

my daughter is not with you? Do not sorrow for Ly- 
chorida, you have a nurse in me. Your beauty is quite 
changed with this unprofitable woe. Come, give me 
your flowers, the sea-air will spoil them; and walk with 
Leoline: the air is fine, and will enliven you. Come, 
Leoline, take her by the arm, and walk with her." 
"No, madam," said Marina, "I pray you let me not 
deprive you of your servant:" for Leoline was one of 
Dionysia's attendants. "Come, come," said this artful 
woman, who wished for a pretence to leave her alone 
with Leoline, "I love the prince, your father, and I 
love you. "We every day expect your father here; and 
when he comes, and finds you so changed by grief 
from the paragon of beauty we reported you, he will 
think we have taken no care of you. Go , I pray you, 
walk, and be cheerful once again. Be careful of that 
excellent complexion, which stole the hearts of old and 
young." Marina, being thus importuned, said, "Well, 
I will go, but yet I have no desire to it." As Diony- 
sia walked away, she said to Leoline, "Remember what 
I have said!" — shocking words, for their meaning 
was that he should remember to kill Marina. 

Marina looked towards the sea, her birthplace, and 
said, "Is the wind westerly that blows?" "South-west," 
replied Leoline. "When I was born the wind was 
north," said she: and then the storm and tempest, and 
all her father's sorrows, and her mother's death, came 
full into her mind; and she said, "My father, as Ly- 
chorida told me, did never fear, but cried, Courage, 
good seamen, to the sailors, galling his princely hands 
with the ropes, and, clasping to the mast, he endured 
a sea that almost split the deck." "When was this?" 
said Leoline. "When I was born," replied Marina: 



336 TALES PROM BHAKSPEARE. 

"never were waves nor wind more violent." And then 
she described the storm, the action of the sailors, the 
boatswain's whistle, and the lond call of the master, 
"which," said she, "trebled the confusion of the ship." 
Lychorida had so often recounted to Marina the story 
of her hapless birth, that these things seemed ever 
present to her imagination. But here Leoline inter- 
rupted her with desiring her to say her prayers. "What 
mean you?" said Marina, who began to fear, she knew 
not why. "If you require a little space for prayer, I 
grant it," said Leoline; "but be not tedious, the gods 
are quick of ear, and I am sworn to do my work in 
haste." "Will you kill me?" said Marina: "alas! 
why?" "To satisfy my lady," replied Leoline. "Why 
would she have me killed?" said Marina: "now, as I 
can remember, I never hurt her in all my life. I never 
spake bad word, nor did any ill turn to any living 
creature. Believe me now, I never killed a mouse, 
nor hurt a fly. I trod upon a worm once against my 
will, but I wept for it. How have I offended?" The 
murderer replied, "My commission is not to reason on 
the deed, but to do it." And he was just going to kill 
her, when certain pirates happened to land at that very 
moment, who seeing Marina bore her off as a prize to 
their ship. 

The pirate who had made Marina his prize carried 
her toMetaline, and sold her for a slave, where, though 
in that humble condition, Marina soon became known 
throughout the whole city of Metaline for her beauty 
and her virtues; and the person to whom she was sold 
became rich by the money she earned for him. She 
taught music, dancing, and fine needleworks, and the 
money she got by her scholars she gave to her master 



PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE. 337 

and mistress; and the fame of her learning and her 
great industry came to the knowledge of Lysimachus, 
a young nobleman who was governor of Metaline, and 
Lysimachus went himself to the house where Marina 
dwelt, to see this paragon of excellence, whom all the 
city praised so highly. Her conversation delighted 
Lysimachus beyond measure, for though he had heard 
much of this admired maiden, he did not expect to 
find her so sensible a lady, so virtuous, and so good, 
as he perceived Marina to be; and he left her, saying, 
he hoped she would persevere in her industrious and 
virtuous course, and that if ever she heard from him 
again it should be for her good. Lysimachus thought 
Marina such a miracle for sense, fine breeding, and 
excellent qualities, as well as for beauty and all out- 
ward graces, that he wished to marry her, and not- 
withstanding her humble situation, he hoped to find 
that her birth was noble; but ever when they asked 
her parentage she would sit still and weep. 

Meantime, at Tharsus, Leoline, fearing the anger 
of Dionysia, told her he had killed Marina; and that 
wicked woman gave out that she was dead, and made 
a pretended funeral for her, and erected a stately mo- 
nument; and shortly after Pericles, accompanied by his 
loyal minister Hellicanus, made a voyage from Tyre 
to Tharsus, on purpose to see his daughter, intending 
to take her home with him: and he never having be- 
held her since he left her an infant in the care of 
Cleon and his wife, how did this good prince rejoice 
at the thought of seeing this dear child of his buried 
queen! but when they told him Marina was dead, and 
showed the monument they had erected for her, great 
was the misery this most wretched father endured, and 

Tales from Shakspeare. 22 



338 TALES PROM SHAKSPEARE. 

not being able to bear the sight of that country where 
his last hope and only memory of his dear Thaisa was 
entombed, he took ship, and hastily departed from 
Tharsus. From the day he entered the ship a dull 
and heavy melancholy seized him. He never spoke, 
and seemed totally insensible to everything around 
him. 

Sailing from Tharsus to Tyre, the ship in its course 
passed by Metaline where Marina dwelt; the governor 
of which place, Lysimachus, observing this royal vessel 
from the shore, and desirous of knowing who was on 
board, went in a barge to the side of the ship, to 
satisfy his curiosity. Hellicanus received him very 
courteously and told him that the ship came from 
Tyre, and that they were conducting thither Pericles, 
their prince; "A man, sir," said Hellicanus, "who has 
not spoken to any one these three months, nor taken 
any sustenance, but just to prolong his grief; it would 
be tedious to repeat the whole ground of his distemper, 
but the main springs from the loss of a beloved daughter 
and a wife." Lysimachus begged to see this afflicted 
prince, and when he beheld Pericles, he saw he had 
been once a goodly person, and he said to him, "Sir 
king, all hail, the gods preserve you, hail, royal sir!" 
But in vain Lysimachus spoke to him; Pericles made 
no answer, nor did he appear to perceive any stranger 
approached. And then Lysimachus bethought him of 
the peerless maid Marina, that haply with her sweet 
tongue she might win some answer from the silent 
prince: and with the consent of Hellicanus he sent for 
Marina, and when she entered the ship in which her 
own father sat motionless with grief, they welcomed 
her on board as if they had known she was their grin- 



PERICLES, PRINCE OP TYRE. 839 

cess; and they cried, "She is a gallant lady." Lysi- 
machus was well pleased to hear their commendations, 
and he said, "She is such a one, that were I well 
assured she came of noble birth, I would wish no better 
choice, and think me rarely blessed in a wife." And 
then he addressed her in courtly terms, as if the lowly- 
seeming maid had been the high-born lady he wished 
to find her, calling her Fair and beautiful Marina, 
telling her a great prince on board that ship had fallen 
into a sad and mournful silence; and, as if Marina had 
the power of conferring health and felicity, he begged 
she would undertake to cure the royal stranger of his 
melancholy. "Sir," said Marina, "I will use my utmost 
skill in his recovery, provided none but I and my maid 
be suffered to come near him." 

She, who at Metaline had so carefully concealed 
her birth, ashamed to tell that one of royal ancestry 
was now a slave, first began to speak to Pericles of 
the wayward changes in her own fate, telling him from 
what a high estate herself had fallen. As if she had 
known it was her royal father she stood before, all the 
words she spoke were of her own sorrows; but her 
reason for so doing was, that she knew nothing more 
wins the attention of the unfortunate than the recital 
of some sad calamity to match their own. The sound 
of her sweet voice aroused the drooping prince; he 
lifted up his eyes, which had been so long fixed and 
motionless; and Marina, who was the perfect image of 
her mother, presented to his amazed sight the features 
of his dead queen. The long-silent prince was once 
more heard to speak. "My dearest wife," said the 
awakened Pericles, "was like this maid, and such a 
one might my daughter have been. My queen's square 

22* 



340 



TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



brows, her stature to an inch, as wand-like straight, as 
silver- voiced, her eyes as jewel-like. Where do you 
live, young maid? Report your parentage, I think you 
said you had been tossed from wrong to injury, and 
that you thought your griefs would equal mine, if both 
were opened." "Some such thing I said," replied 
Marina, "and said no more than what my thoughts did 
warrant me as likely." "Tell me your story," answered 
Pericles, "if I find you have known the thousandth 
part of my endurance, you have borne your sorrows 
like a man, and I have suffered like a girl; yet you 
do look like Patience gazing on kings' graves, and 
smiling extremity out of act. How lost you your 
name, my most kind virgin? Recount your story I 
beseech you. Come sit by me." How was Pericles 
surprised when she said her name was Marina, for he 
knew it was no usual name, but had been invented by 
himself for his own child to signify seaborn: "0, I am 
mocked," said he, "and you are sent hither by some 
incensed God to make the world laugh at me." "Pa- 
tience, good sir," said Marina, "or I must cease here." 
"Nay," said Pericles, "I will be patient; you little 
know how you do startle me, to call yourself Marina." 
"The name," she replied, "was given me by one that 
had some power, my father, and a king." "How, a 
king's daughter! " said Pericles, "and called Marina! 
But are you flesh and blood? Are you no fairy? Speak 
on; where were you born? and wherefore called 
Marina?" She replied, "I was called Marina, because 
I was born at sea. My mother was the daughter of a 
king; she died the minute I was born, as my good 
nurse Lychorida has often told me weeping. The king 
my father left me at Tharsus, till the cruel wife of 



PERICLES, PRINCE OP TYRE. 341 

Cleon sought to murder me. A crew of pirates came 
and rescued me, and brought me here to Metaline. 
But, good sir, why do you weep? It may he, you 
think me an impostor. But, indeed, sir, I am the 
daughter to king Pericles, if good king Pericles he 
living." Then Pericles, terrified as he seemed at his 
own sudden joy, and doubtful if this could be real, 
loudly called for his attendants, who rejoiced at the 
sound of their beloved king's voice; and he said to 
Hellicanus, "0 Hellicanus, strike me, give me a gash, 
put me to present pain, lest this great sea of joys 
rushing upon me, overbear the shores of my mortality. 
0, come hither, thou that wast born at sea, buried at 
Tharsus, and found at sea again. Hellicanus, down 
on your knees, thank the holy gods! This is Marina. 
Now blessings on thee, my child! Give me fresh gar- 
ments, mine own Hellicanus! She is not dead at Thar- 
sus as she should have been by the savage Dionysia. 
She shall tell you all, when you shall kneel to her, 
and call her your very princess. Who is this?" (ob- 
serving Lysimachus for the first time.) "Sir," said 
Hellicanus, "it is the governor of Metaline, who hear- 
ing of your melancholy, came to see you." "I embrace 
you, sir," said Pericles. "Give me my robes! I am 
well with beholding — Heaven bless my girl! But 
hark! what music is that?" — for now, either sent 
by some kind god, or by his own delighted fancy 
deceived, he seemed to hear soft music. "My lord, I 
hear none," replied Hellicanus. "None," said Pericles; 
"why it is the music of the spheres." As there was 
no music to be heard, Lysimachus concluded that the 
sudden joy had unsettled the prince's understanding; 
and he said, "It is not good to cross him: let him 



342 TALES PROM SHAKSPEARE. 

have his way:" and then they told him they heard the 
music; and he now complaining of a drowsy slumber 
coming over him, Lysimachus persuaded him to rest 
on a couch, and placing a pillow under his head, he, 
quite overpowered with excess of joy, sunk into a 
sound sleep, and Marina watched in silence by the 
couch of her sleeping parent. 

While he slept, Pericles dreamed a dream which 
made him resolve to go to Ephesus. His dream was, 
that Diana, the goddess of the Ephesians, appeared to 
him, and commanded him to go to her temple at 
Ephesus, and there before her altar to declare the 
story of his life and misfortunes-, and by her silver 
bow she swore, that if he performed her injunction, he 
should meet with some rare felicity. When he awoke, 
being miraculously refreshed, he told his dream, and 
that his resolution was to obey the bidding of the 
goddess. 

Then Lysimachus invited Pericles to come on shore, 
and refresh himself with such entertainment as he 
should find at Metaline, which courteous offer Pericles 
accepting, agreed to tarry with him for the space of a 
day or two. During which time we may well suppose 
what feastings, what rejoicings, what costly shows and 
entertainments the governor made in Metaline, to greet 
the royal father of his dear Marina, whom in her 
obscure fortunes he had so respected. Nor did Pericles 
frown upon Lysimachus's suit, when he understood how 
he had honoured his child in the days of her low 
estate, and that Marina showed herself not averse to 
his proposals; only he made it a condition, before he 
gave his consent, that they should visit with him the 
shrine of the Ephesian Diana: to whose temple they 



PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE. 343 

shortly after all three undertook a voyage; and, the 
goddess herself filling their sails with prosperous winds, 
after a few weeks they arrived in safety at Ephesus. 

There was standing near the altar of the goddess, 
when Pericles with his train entered the temple, the 
good Cerimon (now grown very aged) who had restored 
Thaisa, the wife of Pericles, to life; and Thaisa, now 
a priestess of the temple, was standing before the altar; 
and though the many years he had passed in sorrow 
for her loss had much altered Pericles, Thaisa thought 
she knew her husband's features, and when he ap- 
proached the altar and began to speak, she remembered 
his voice, and listened to his words with wonder and a 
joyful amazement. And these were the words that 
Pericles spoke before the altar: "Hail, Diana! to per- 
form thy just commands, I here confess myself the 
prince of Tyre, who, frighted from my country, at 
Pentapolis wedded the fair Thaisa: she died at sea in 
childbed, but brought forth a maid-child called Marina. 
She atTharsus was nursed with Dionysia, who at four- 
teen years thought to kill her, but her better stars 
brought her to Metaline, by whose shores as I sailed, 
her good fortunes brought this maid on board, where 
by her most clear remembrance she made herself known 
to be my daughter." 

Thaisa, unable to bear the transports which his 
words had raised in her, cried out, "You are, you are, 
royal Pericles" — and fainted. "What means this 
woman?" said Pericles: "she dies! gentlemen, help." 
— "Sir," said Cerimon, "if you have told Diana's 
altar true, this is your wife." "Reverend gentleman, 
no;" said Pericles: "I threw her over board with these 
very arms." Cerimon then recounted how, early one 



344 TALES FROM SHAKSPEARE. 

tempestuous morning, this lady was thrown upon the 
Ephesian shore; how, opening the coffin, he found 
therein rich jewels, and a paper; how, happily, he 
recovered her, and placed her here in Diana's temple. 
And now, Thaisa being restored from her swoon said, 
"0 my lord, are you not Pericles? Like him you 
speak, like him you are. Did you not name a tem- 
pest, a birth, and death?" He astonished said, "The 
voice of dead Thaisa!" "That Thaisa am I," she 
replied, "supposed dead and drowned." "0 true 
Diana!" exclaimed Pericles, in a passion of devout 
astonishment. "And now," said Thaisa, "I know you 
better. Such a ring as I see on your finger did the 
king my father give you, when we with tears parted 
from him at Pentapolis." "Enough, you gods!" cried 
Pericles, "your present kindness makes my past 
miseries sport. come, Thaisa, be buried a second 
time within these arms." 

And Marina said, "My heart leaps to be gone into 
my mother's bosom." Then did Pericles show his 
daughter to her mother, saying, "Look who kneels 
here, flesh of thy flesh, thy burthen at sea, and called 
Marina, because she was yielded there." "Blessed and 
my own!" said Thaisa: and while she hung in rap- 
turous joy over her child, Pericles knelt before the 
altar, saying, "Pure Diana, bless thee for thy vision. 
For this, I will offer oblations nightly to thee." And 
then and there did Pericles, with the consent of Thaisa, 
solemnly affiance their daughter, the virtuous Marina, 
to the well-deserving Lysimachus in marriage. 

Thus have we seen in Pericles, his queen, and 
daughter, a famous example of virtue assailed by 
calamity (through the sufferance of Heaven, to teach 



PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE. 345 

patience and constancy to men), under the same guid- 
ance becoming finally successful, and triumphing over 
chance and change. In Hellicanus we have beheld a 
notable pattern of truth, of faith, and loyalty, who, 
when he might have succeeded to a throne, chose 
rather to recall the rightful owner to his possession, 
than to become great by another's wrong. In the 
worthy Cerimon, who restored Thaisa to life, we are 
instructed how goodness directed by knowledge, in 
bestowing benefits upon mankind, approaches to the 
nature of the gods. It only remains to be told, that 
Dionysia, the wicked wife of Cleon, met with an end 
proportionable to her deserts; the inhabitants ofTharsu3, 
when her cruel attempt upon Marina was known, 
rising in a body to revenge the daughter of their bene- 
factor, and setting fire to the palace of Cleon, burnt 
both him and her, and their whole household: the gods 
seeming well pleased, that so foul a murder, though 
but intentional, and never carried into act, should be 
punished in a way befitting its enormity. 



THE END. 



PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 





014 106 753 9 ft 





